She nodded.
CHAPTER
6
—
, 1909
When I looked out, I saw that the snow was falling more fiercely than ever, driven by a sharp wind that had already piled several inches against the French doors where we’d found Phil Lundigren a few hours earlier.
Although Dwight had taken a professional interest in the proceedings and was now in deep conversation with the detectives Sigrid and her colleague had left to finish up, I was too tired and hungry to listen. Supper had been a few glasses of wine, two bites of cheese, and a cube of melon, and that was over three hours ago.
I stifled a yawn and Elliott Buntrock said, “Tired?”
“Not at all,” I lied.
“If you prefer, I can wait for Sigrid downstairs.”
“Don’t be silly,” I said, knowing that it would probably be at least another hour before everyone cleared out and left Dwight and me alone. “I
I laughed. “I’m not sure. The last time I looked, though, the refrigerator was stuffed. My husband’s absolutely besotted with the grocery store around the corner.” “Fairway Market, right? It’s a madhouse, but people come from all over town to shop there. Have you tried their cafe upstairs? They do a great breakfast.” Without actually being invited, he followed me into the kitchen. While I wiped fingerprint powder off the countertops, he murmured approval of the high ceilings and period woodwork, then held the refrigerator door open so I could rummage through the little plastic boxes and bags.
“Artichoke salad? Mixed olives? Bruschetta?” I asked. “Sliced rare tenderloin? Smoked salmon?” “Yes, please,” he said. “And is that a pack of oatmeal stout hiding in the back?” It was.
“I must say that I rather like your husband’s taste.”
We dumped everything on the kitchen counter and pulled out two of the four stools. Picnicking at a murder scene might be considered a little bizarre, but if Dwight and I were going to stay here, we needed food and drink, and I was ready for both. Besides, the crime scene team seemed to be through with the kitchen.
“Plates in here?” Elliott asked, reaching for a cupboard door.
“Glasses there. Plates one door over,” I told him.
As he assembled dishes and utensils, I moved the cardboard box that had held that chunky bronze thing that Mrs. Lattimore had sent and started to wad up the paper that had cushioned it.
“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.
