Three-Day Town

“Right around the corner,” he told them. “First door on the right.”

They rang the doorbell twice and knocked loudly, but no one came.

“If she’s a nutcase, we may be wasting our time,” said Hentz.

Sigrid held her finger on the doorbell until the door, secured by two safety chains, finally opened a narrow crack.

The woman who peered out at them had a thin drawn face and sleep-rumpled coal black hair that needed a touch-up at the gray roots. Incongruously, her eyes were sooty with heavy black mascara, blusher pinked her cheeks, and her lips were freshly painted a bright red that matched her quilted satin robe.

Sigrid tried to remember what she had read about social anxiety disorder and wondered if putting on makeup was part of this woman’s coping technique.

“Phil’s not here,” the woman said. “Come back later.”

Hentz blocked the door with his foot before she could close it, and they held up their badges.

“Police, Mrs. Lundigren,” Sigrid said. “May we come in?”

“Phil’s not here,” the woman said again.

“We know. That’s why we have to talk to you.”

Grudgingly, the woman removed the chain, then quickly retreated to the far doorway of this small room to watch them uneasily as they entered her home. The moment their eyes met hers, she instantly looked away.

Having seen the body of the dead man, bulky and coarse-looking in his dark brown coveralls, and having heard that his wife supplemented their income by cleaning, Sigrid had subconsciously expected an equally bulky woman and a drab apartment, perhaps furnished with castoffs from the building’s residents.

Instead, the wife was slender and pretty and this tiny room was nicely furnished. The walls were painted a deep red with white enamel trim. The single window was draped in white linen over white sheers. Red-and-white floral cushions softened the clean lines of an off-white loveseat, and two wingchairs were upholstered in white velvet. Several dainty crystal cats sat atop a gleaming end table that also held a lamp with a cut-glass base and white silk shade. A modern oriental-style rug lay on the dark oak floor. The whole effect was crisply feminine.

Mrs. Lundigren’s arms tightened across her thin chest. “Where’s Phil?”

“Excuse me?” Sigrid said.

“You said you know he’s not here, so where is he?” Her eyes flickered over to them and then dropped to the floor.

“When did you last see him?” Sam Hentz countered.

“After supper. There was a party up on six. Loud people coming and going through the lobby. He said he was going up to check on things.”

“What time would that be, Mrs. Lundigren?”

“Maybe ten o’clock? I don’t know.” Her fingers brushed her wrist absentmindedly. “I don’t have a watch.”

They glanced around the small room. There was no clock in sight. No television either. In fact, now that Sigrid looked more closely, this room did not seem to be used at all. Nothing out of place.

“Is this where you were when he left?” she asked.

Mrs. Lundigren studied the floor and shook her head. “In the den.”

Without really knowing why she cared, Sigrid took a step forward and said, “May we see?”

“No!”

The force of her refusal surprised the two officers.

Trembling now, she edged behind a wingback chair and moaned, “Please. Go away now. And tell Phil to come home. Please!”

Sigrid looked helplessly at Hentz, who made soothing noises. “It’s okay, Mrs. Lundigren. We’re going to stay over here. Why don’t you take a seat and let us tell you why we came?”

He continued to reassure her with soft words, and eventually she forced herself to come out from behind the chair and sit down in it. Once she had stopped trembling, Hentz stepped aside for Sigrid, who took a deep breath and said, “I’m really sorry, Mrs. Lundigren, but Phil is dead.”

“What?”

“Up in 6-A. Someone—”

“No,” said Denise Lundigren. “No, no, no! He can’t be dead.”

When they did not reassure her, she looked around in wild agitation as if her husband might suddenly appear. “Who’s going to look after me?”

“Is there someone we can call?” asked Hentz.

She shook her head, then, almost meeting his eyes, she said, “Are you sure he’s really dead? Not just hurt?”

“I’m very sorry, ma’am.”

Wrapping her arms even tighter, the woman began to rock back and forth, keening in a high shrill wordless scream that seemed to go on and on forever.

Hentz started to reach out to her to offer comfort, but she recoiled, screaming even louder.

“Bellevue?” Hentz asked Sigrid in a low voice.