Three-Day Town

“And being a good aunt?” he asked.

“Exactly.”

Harald was unamused. “The time?”

“Not more than eight or ten minutes past nine,” I said meekly.

“And the hall was crowded?”

I nodded.

“Can you describe anyone in particular when you came back for the camera?”

“Not really. I was more intent on getting past them. And besides, the elevator kept bringing up more people. I do remember a woman in a hot pink tank top and white jeans, and there was a man with a blue Mohawk, but dye his Mohawk red and put her in something that didn’t scream tripleD cup and I couldn’t give you an honest ID. I’m afraid I’m a typical eyewitness—blind in one eye, didn’t see out the other.” I was hoping to foster a little collegiality. After all, we were fellow officers of the court, weren’t we? She didn’t smile. “Anyhow, we both know how inaccurate such accounts are unless the witness knows the person.”

She gave a curt nod and wanted to see specifically where I had left my earrings. “Is anything else missing or disturbed?”

“I can’t be sure. We only arrived last night, but I’m fairly certain that painted cat wasn’t there and that there were more of those little boxes.” I realized anew how chilly the apartment was now and moved over to the radiator, which was hot to the touch but ineffectual with the French door opened so wide.

“Can’t we at least close the door?” I asked. “His foot’s barely blocking it and surely it won’t matter if we nudge it over a couple of inches.” I offered her my camera. “You can even take pictures if you’re worried about disturbing a crime scene.”

She pushed the door to until it was in the same position as we’d found it, but an inch-wide crack remained. At least the icy rain wasn’t coming from that direction.

“Sorry,” she said, not sounding sorry at all as she pulled on leather gloves from the deep pockets of the parka she was wearing. Even her friend was wearing at least two layers, while I had only my red cashmere sweater.

Resigned, I said, “Then you won’t mind if I get my coat.”

She followed me back into the bedroom. “In the closet?”

I nodded and she used her gloved hand to carefully turn the knob on the closet door.

Dismayed, I said, “You’re not going to have your people dust for prints in here, are you? Do you know how hard that stuff is to clean up? Worse than cigarette ashes.”

She eyed my exposed jewelry and conceded that it would probably be pointless.

Once I was zipped into my own parka, I could satisfy my curiosity about Mrs. Lattimore’s by-the-book granddaughter. Other than her changeable gray eyes and her height, I couldn’t see much family resemblance. Even in sickness and old age, Jane Lattimore retained remnants of great beauty, and this woman was striking without being beautiful as the world usually defines it. Thin nose and high cheekbones, yes, but her neck was a little too long, her mouth too wide, her chin too strong. She certainly had the Lattimore reserve in spades, although it seemed tinged by sadness. Or maybe that was only my imagination, because Kate had told me how that artist had died in a car crash a few short months after they became lovers. If there was any chemistry between her and this Buntrock, I couldn’t see it. Not on her part, anyhow.

On his?

Hard to say. Certainly he seemed very much attuned to her restless pacing as we waited for the troops to arrive. “Rathmann?” he asked.

She gave an impatient twitch of her thin shoulders. “I should be used to the Rathmanns by now.”

“I was sorry to hear about your loss,” I said inanely even though her lover’s death must have happened at least two or three years ago. Her face froze and I instantly wished I could take back the words.

Buntrock cocked his bony head like an intelligent bird on the alert and rescued me. “About that object that’s missing…”

As if grateful to change the subject, she said, “Yes, my grandmother gave it to Judge Knott and—”

“Oh please,” I interrupted. “Call me Deborah. We may not be kissing cousins, but we are kin. Somewhere back in the family tree.”

Diverted, Elliott Buntrock said, “What’s a kissing cousin?”

For the first time since finding Phil Lundigren’s body, I laughed. “All cousins are blood kin, but a kissing cousin is one closely enough related that you automatically hug and kiss going or coming.”

A slightly horrified look crossed the other woman’s face, and when she visibly drew back, I almost laughed again. “Don’t worry, Sigrid. I’m not going to hug you.”

Once again, I did not get the smile I’d hoped for.

“That thing my grandmother sent. Did she include a note?”

“I didn’t notice,” I said. “Not after I saw what it was.”

“But what was it?” Buntrock asked again.

“Well… it was rather intricate and—Oh wait! I can show you.” I set the camera to display, and when I found a close-up that Dwight had taken, I zoomed in and handed it to him.

Both were too sophisticated to make the obvious lewd remarks, and Buntrock’s brow furrowed as he concentrated. “God! What a racist bit of obscenity. The hooked noses. The exaggerated lips. And yet it reminds me of—Oh, Lord! Could this be one of those Streichert maquettes?”