Corpus Christmas

by Margaret Maron

  “Ah, but what am I talking?” Mrs. Palka shook her head ruefully at what she considered a failing memory. “That one didn’t come till after the war started.”

  “What about Mr. Jurczyk? Was he married?”

  “Not that one. Too interested in the almighty dollar to spend a penny on a wife.”

  The dining room opened and residents began a modest surge through the doors. The smell of roast meat and steamed broccoli spread through the lounge and stirred those still seated to action. Even Mrs. Palka began to move her walker into a ready position.

  “But really, Barbara’s the one who could tell you better about the people who lived there,” she said. She took a slip of paper with a Staten Island address from the pocket of her pink cardigan and gave it to Peters. “If she’ll talk to you. We used to call each other up on the phone at least once a month, but she’s gone downhill so much this year. Last time I talked to her—back in August that must have been—I don’t believe she knew who I was. But then she is eighty-seven, four years older than me.”

  Getting up from a chair seemed almost as painful to Mrs. Palka as sitting down, but as she regained her feet and had her walker pointed toward the dining room, her querulous friend impatiently called to her, “Hurry up, Dora! Loretta says we’re having colicky moose for dessert.”

  A ridiculous mental image filled Peters’s head, and plump little Mrs. Palka, her wrinkled face aglow with laughter, winked at him with such insouciant charm that he found himself laughing, too.

  “That Maureen! She knows perfectly well that Loretta said chocolate mousse.”

  The Hymans lived on Central Park South, but the Herzogs and the Reinickes lived within three blocks of each other in the East Sixties, so Elaine Albee and Jim Lowry decided to interview them first.

  Lydia Babcock Herzog was tall and gaunt in a high-necked tunic and slacks of ivory wool. The young police-woman admired her dramatic gold necklace, her diamond earrings, her beautifully furnished drawing room with its miniature gold Christmas tree set upon an intricately carved ebony stand, even her tall and dignified husband; but as far as Elaine was concerned, that old adage, “You can never be too rich or too thin,” was only half right. Mrs. Herzog would have to gain ten pounds just to qualify for anorectic, never mind too thin.

  Mr. Herzog was quietly handsome, like a fair-haired English film star of the forties, refined and reserved. He offered Jim and Elaine drinks and, when they refused, continued with the one he’d begun before they arrived.

  Mrs. Herzog’s drink remained untouched on the low table before her. She sat on a sofa of pale blue brocade, inclined her head graciously, and repeated how shocked they had been to learn of Dr. Shambley’s untimely death. How utterly shocked, in fact.

  Jim Lowry rather doubted that. Mrs. Herzog seemed too detached to have ever been shocked by anything, but he nodded. “We understand that he hadn’t been there very long?”

  “He was appointed at our semiannual meeting in September,” said Mrs. Herzog. “Jacob Munson put his name forward. I wasn’t quite sure he was right for the Breul House—he was on sabbatical from the New York Center for the Fine Arts, you see—but Jacob assured us his academic credentials were impeccable and we did lack a scholar on the board.” She watched her husband refill his martini glass from a silver shaker on the antique Chinese sideboard. “I suppose we shall have to find ourselves another scholar.”

  “This time from the Institute of Fine Arts,” her husband murmured as he sat down again in a pale blue chair by the sideboard.

  “Yes.” She lifted her own drink from the gleaming teak table and held the long-stemmed crystal cocktail glass with skeletal fingers while she stared at the small white object awash in clear liquid.

  A Gibson, Elaine decided. Martinis had olives, Gibsons had pearl onions.

  Of course.

  Onions also had fewer calories than olives. Not that it actually mattered.

  Without touching the glass to her lips, Mrs. Herzog returned it to the table.

  “Were you aware of any animosity between Dr. Shambley and anyone else at the Breul House?” asked Jim Lowry.

  “We hardly knew him, Detective Lowry. Marie Reinicke arranged a luncheon at the house for everyone to meet him, early last month. He was quite witty that day. A bit too witty for my taste, but then perhaps I—”

  She hesitated as her husband stood and casually poured himself another drink, then looked at her inquiringly. “Another for you, my dear?”

  “No, thank you,” she replied. “I still seem to have some.”

  “We were told that he was witty at Mr. Reinicke’s expense last night,” said Elaine Albee.

  “Precisely my point. Winston was devastated when be had to part with his Van Gogh drawing, and for that odious little man to make light of it—!”

  Her voice lost its detachment and Mr. Herzog completed the thought for her in a dignified tone. “He was no gentleman.”

  “Was Mr. Reinicke angry last night?” asked Lowry.

  “Winston Reinicke is a gentleman,” said Mrs. Herzog. “If you’re really asking if he remained behind last night and exacted revenge for Dr. Shambley’s insults, he did not. The four of us left Erich Breul House together shortly after eight and shared a car uptown. We dropped the Reinickes at their own door well before eight-thirty.”

  “Are you quite sure I can’t fix someone a drink?” Mr. Herzog asked courteously.

  When they regained the street some twenty-seven floors below, Elaine Albee and Jim Lowry unconsciously paused to draw in several deep breaths of frigid night air.

  Lowry laughed when he realized what they were doing. “That’s how it must feel in a submarine or a spaceship,” he said. “Every crack hermetically sealed and all the air recycled over and over until there’s no oxygen left in it.”

  Rush hour traffic was still building and streams of headlights could be seen all the way down Park Avenue. The Reinickes lived in a building that fronted the park and as she and Jim walked over to Fifth, Elaine said, “Before we do the Hymans, let’s stop in at F.A.O. Schwarz if we finish up with the Reinickes in time. I need to see some kids talking to Santa soon or I’m going to lose all my Christmas spirit.”

  The Reinicke apartment rose high above Central Park. The living room was furnished with an eclectic mix of beautiful antiques, modern couches, small collectibles, and a large, bushy Scotch pine squashed into a corner window; its colored lights overlay the lights of the park and were reflected back into the room. Despite the clutter, the place seemed warm and cozy after the airless precision of the Herzogs’ home.

  Mrs. Reinicke was a vivacious blonde of late middle-age and seemed totally unselfconscious about her limp.

  “Polio,” she said cheerfully when she noticed Jim Lowry’s surreptitious glance at her rolling gait. “Jonas Salk was eight years too late with his vaccine for me. Even so, I was lucky. My baby sister died.”

  She tilted her blond head to them. “So much anxiety now with AIDS but we’ve forgotten the sheer terror of the polio epidemics, haven’t we? I do hope there’s a heaven. Dr. Salk and his colleagues so deserve one.”

  Winston Reinicke, bluff and hearty, patted her hand tenderly. “So they do, my love, so they do.”

  “Forgive my asking,” said Elaine, “but do you ever use a cane?”

  “Oh, no. Not for me. I tried once but such a nuisance you wouldn’t believe! Getting in and out of cabs, and they always slide off your chair and trip up the waiters. I have an Irish shepherd’s crook for tramping around our country place, but here in the city I simply can’t be bothered. Winston, do fix these two young people something to drink.”

  She waved aside their demurrals. “It doesn’t have to be alcoholic. We have juice, Perrier, or—I know! In honor the season, what about some eggnog without the nog or mulled apple cider?”

  The detectives had not wanted to accept drinks from the Herzogs, but somehow it seemed all right from the Reinickes and soon they were sipping hot cider, warmed inside and out b
y the spicy bouquet of cloves and cinnamon.

  “I grew up on an apple farm in Pennsylvania,” Lowry said contentedly, “and this smells like Christmas at home.”

  Both Reinickes looked as if they’d much rather discuss apple farms or Christmas customs or even Lowry’s mother’s recipe for mulled cider than Roger Shambley; but it was clear that someone had already given them all the news about the art historian’s death. Once the initial awkwardness wore off, they freely answered questions about the previous evening as if the detectives were there solely to gather background material. Neither seemed to realize that Mr. Reinicke might be a suspect.

  “It was an informal sort of get-together,” explained Marie Reinicke. “Four or five of the trustees and their spouses, some art people, people from the Breul House. Organized by Lady Francesca Leeds with, I suppose, Mr. Thorvaldsen picking up the tab?” She looked doubtfully at her husband.

  “Quite right, quite right,” agreed Mr. Reinicke. “All their idea, and a tax write-off to boot, so it’s only right, eh? Our funds are too low for impromptu parties, I’m afraid. And don’t forget Oscar Nauman.”

  “Of course,” Mrs. Reinicke nodded briskly. “He was the whole point of the party. You’ve been told that though?”

  “He’s a painter—going to exhibit some of his pictures there, isn’t he?” Lowry asked hesitantly. “And that’s supposed to help bring in more money?”

  “And publicity.” Mrs. Reinicke cocked her blond head at Lowry’s uncertainty and charitably elucidated, “Yes, you might say Oscar Nauman’s a painter. Like Donald Trump’s a carpenter or Pavarotti sings a little. Nauman’s never had a summary exhibition and to have his first at the Erich Breul House—! There’ll be lines all around Sussex Square.”

  Jim and Elaine exchanged glances. Neither had realized that Lieutenant Harald was involved with someone of that stature.

  “And the Kohn woman, Jacob Munson’s colleague at the gallery,” said Mr. Reinicke, who was still reconstructing last night’s party, “and that quiet young woman with those ex-traordinary gray eyes. She came with Nauman. Did you meet her, Marie? A Miss Harald. Tall woman. Didn’t say much, but had a nice smile.”

  “He never listens to a thing I tell him,” Mrs. Reinicke confided to Elaine and Jim. “Now, Winston, don’t you remember when Hope Ruffton called to tell us about Dr. Shambley? She said that the police officer in charge of the investigation turned out to be the same woman who was there last night with Oscar Nauman.”

  “Eh?” Mr. Reinicke drew himself up and looked at Lowry and Albee with the first signs of suspicion. “Well, then. You must already know everything that happened, eh?”

  “Not really,” Elaine Albee said smoothly. “Lieutenant Harald was there as a guest, like everyone else, and she was only one person. She couldn’t have seen everything Dr. Shambley did.”

  “But she did hear his exchange with me, eh?” He glowered down at her.

  “Now, Winston—”

  “She said he seemed like a very rude man,” Elaine answered diplomatically.

  Mr. Reinicke flexed the tension from his shoulders and smoothed the lapels of his tweed jacket. It was like watching a farm dog lower its hackles and become good ol’ Shep again, thought Lowry.

  “Dr. Shambley was rude to you last night?” asked Mrs. Reinicke. “You didn’t tell me, Winston.”

  “No need, my dear, no need at all,” he said gruffly. “He’d heard about our Van Gogh and it amused him.”

  “Amused him?” Mrs. Reinicke began to grow indignant. “And then he had the unmitigated gall to suggest I could upgrade my collection with a Norman Rockwell or a Pierson Sharpe.”

  “My dear!”

  “Sharpe?” asked Jim Lowry, who rather liked Norman Rockwell’s down-to-earth pictures and didn’t see where the insult lay in Shambley’s remarks.

  “He’s the man who draws those kids with the big sad eyes,” Elaine told him. “The one my sister-in-law likes so much.”

  Lowry knew what Lainey thought of her sister-in-law’s taste and began to understand the Reinickes’ annoyance.

  “No wonder you and Cheevy were gone so long last night,” said Mrs. Reinicke sympathetically.

  “You went out again last night?” asked Elaine. “Needed a good long tramp,” Winston Reinicke nodded. “Walked around the edge of the park to Columbus Circle, then up to Lincoln Center and back down Broadway to Times Square. Don’t mind admitting the fellow got to me. Nobody likes to admit he’s failed.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Winston!” Mrs. Reinicke stood, plucked her husband’s empty glass from his hand and stumped over to their liquor cabinet to pour him a fresh drink. “You had a temporary setback. And you were hardly alone. I never liked that Van Gogh anyhow.”

  “Well, I did!” he said testily, waving away the drink she offered him.

  Mrs. Reinicke evidently knew her husband’s moods quite well, for she continued to hold out the glass until he sighed and took it.

  “Suppose that lieutenant woman wants to know what it was all about,” he told Lowry and Albee. “Black Monday. Took a real bath on the Street. Overextended. More than I could raise to cover all my margin calls. Elliott Buntrock’d had his eye on my Van Gogh for years and he offered to help liquidate some of my collection in a hurry if I’d give him first shot at that drawing. Didn’t try to fudge the prices either. Damned decent of him. Might’ve gotten a bit more if I’d put them up for a proper auction; but if I could’ve waited for an auction, wouldn’t have had to sell out in the first place, eh?”

  “And now you can have the fun of building a new collection,” Marie Reinicke observed indulgently.

  “Not the same,” said her husband, taking another swallow of his drink. “Not as much fun having people to dinner any more either.”

  “It was a very gloomy drawing,” Mrs. Reinicke told the young officers. “But some people were impressed to learn they were dining in the same room with a Van Gogh and Winston loved to show it off. Personally, I miss the Cassatt pastel more and no one ever paid it a shred of attention.”

  “After Dr. Shambley’s remarks, though, it’s certainly understandable that you’d want to walk off some steam,” said Elaine Albee.

  It all sounded very much like a tempest in a teapot to Jim Lowry, but he knew that murders were committed every day for even sillier reasons. It was lucky that Mr. Reinicke had an alibi.

  “Did your friend come home with you?” he asked.

  Mr. Reinicke looked blank. “Friend?”

  Elaine realized that Jim was trying to avoid raising Mr. Reinicke’s ire again. “You said that you and a Mr.—Cheever, was it?—took a long walk together,” she said helpfully. “If you could give us his full name and address—”

  “Cheevy?”

  Mrs. Reinicke lay back in her chair and whooped with laughter. “Mr. Cheevy!”

  “Cheevy’s our dog,” chuckled Mr. Reinicke, his good spirits partially restored. “A King Charles spaniel out of Scorned Lady of Winterset, so we had to name him Cheevy. First name,”—he chuckled some more—“Miniver, of course.”

  Mrs. Reinicke took pity on the detectives’ puzzled looks. “From the Edwin Arlington Robinson poem,” she smiled. “You know: ‘Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn’?”

  Elaine looked at Jim, then sighed and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Mr. Reinicke, but we have to ask you exactly what time you left this apartment, when you returned and if you met anyone you recognized during that time?”

  Traffic was beginning to thin out, and as they walked down Fifth Avenue to see if the famous toy store were keeping late Christmas hours, a sharp arctic wind swept across the park. With mittened hands, Elaine pulled her woolly blue knitted hat further down over her face and turned up her collar till only her eyes and her pink-tipped nose could be seen.

  Jim Lowry had not worn a hat or cap since he was twelve and still under parental control, but he turned up his own collar and wrapped his wool scarf tighter so that his ears were somewhat protected. His b
reath blew out in white clouds before him as he said gloomily, “I don’t think Lieutenant Harald’s going to accept the testimony of a King Charles spaniel.”

  Elaine pulled him to a stop. “Look down there,” she said, gesturing with her head. “Cohen said a rod or a stick, right? Do you suppose Mr. Reinicke has one?”

  On the sidewalk a few yards ahead of them, a man was cleaning up after his poodle with a device that looked something like a long-handled dustpan.

  Jim began to laugh. “You gotta promise I can be there when you ask the lieutenant if Shambley could have bought it with a pooper-scooper.”

  With a fuzzy hat pulled down over her ears and a long fur coat that swathed her tiny body like a djellaba, Søren Thorvaldsen’s middle-aged secretary tripped up the gangplank and across the wide deck as if the frigid gusts whipping off the Hudson River were nothing more than spring zephyrs.

  Probably one of those dauntless Nordic types that went from steaming saunas to splashing among ice floes, thought Sigrid as she shivered along behind in a utilitarian coat and hood of heavy black wool that had weathered nine winters. The usual river traffic seemed to be out on the choppy water tonight, but the wind made her eyes so teary that she could only distinguish blurred lights in the darkness.

  When she called earlier to set up this meeting, Sigrid hadn’t expected it would take a half-mile hike to find Thorvaldsen. But she’d arrived at his office overlooking the river to find a Danish pixie who, after a quick telephone conversation conducted in Danish, had immediately encased herself in an envelope of fur and led Sigrid through a maze of hallways and elevators and eventually across a bone-numbing expanse of windswept pier and up onto the deck of his cruise ship, the Sea Dancer.

  “She’s supposed to sail Saturday at noon,” explained the pixie, a Miss Kristensen. Even in high-heeled leather boots, the woman barely came up to Sigrid’s shoulder and her words were almost blown away as she trotted along ahead of the tall police officer. “—partial loss of power in one of the main generators.”