Three-Day Town

“The murder,” I said. “Pick up any tips from those detectives in there?”

“Nope. Everything’s standard procedure and their funding’s even worse than ours. They do a lot of their own preliminary lab work, too.” He held out his hand to Elliott. “We didn’t really get a chance to talk before. I’m Dwight Bryant.” “Elliott Buntrock. Hope you don’t mind that I’ve helped myself to one of your beers.” “Not a bit. In fact, I’ll join you.”

“So what brings Southerners to New York in January?” Elliott asked when we had filled our plates and Dwight had poured part of his ale into my glass.

“It’s supposed to be our honeymoon,” I said.

He lifted his glass in toast. “Congratulations!”

“Thanks,” said Dwight, “but the wedding was a year ago.”

Elliott grinned. “I thought you people only talked slow.”

Dwight laughed and cut himself a piece of some smelly cheese that was pockmarked with flecks of blue mold. “Things kept coming up.” “I gather you’re a police officer, too?”

“Sheriff’s deputy. Pass the mustard?”

Elliott put a dab of dill mustard on his salmon, then passed the little jar on to Dwight. “So you catch them and Deborah sentences them?” “If I find them guilty,” I said mildly.

“She keeps us honest. Won’t let us get by with sloppy work even if the guy’s guilty as sin and she knows it.” I ignored the bait and said, “And what do you do, Elliott?”

“I’m a freelance curator.”

“A curator? Does that mean you put on exhibits?”

“That’s part of the job description.”

“What’s the rest?”

“I’m on retainer at a few galleries and museums. Say a venue wants to have a special showing of an artist or a period. Take Oscar Nauman. He finally agreed to let the Arnheim give him a retrospective, but he died before any real planning got under way. I had to contact collectors all over the country and in Europe and Japan and arrange to borrow some key works. You can imagine the paperwork—insurance, customs forms, shipping. Then I had to go through the paintings that were still in his possession and come up with a theme that would tie his different periods together. Finally, I had to put together a full-color catalogue raisonne with essays by some of his contemporaries and fellow artists.” He pulled off a piece of the bruschetta and smeared a little mustard on it. “If a client wants me to, I’ll research, acquire, and authenticate certain works of modern art. I also do a little writing for various art journals.” “And run interference for Sigrid? Like with that Rathmann guy who wanted to interview her?” “When she lets me.” He gave a shrug and hunched into his gray tweed jacket like one of Aunt Sister’s guinea hens hunching into its gray feathers. Maybe I was reading more than was actually there, but his response sounded a little wistful.

“Who’s Rathmann?” Dwight asked.

“A wannabe art critic at the party tonight,” said Elliott. He speared an artichoke heart and said, “Tell me about Sigrid’s grandmother. Is she as strong-minded and eccentric as she sounds?” “Well, she’s certainly strong-minded,” I said cautiously, remembering her steely determination to keep her cancer from her daughters. “I don’t know that I’d call her eccentric.” “No more than most ninety-year-old women who’ve always had the money and power to set the rules for others,” said Dwight. “I doubt if all of ’em live in the South.” “Point taken,” said Elliott. “I didn’t mean to imply—” “Neither did I,” Dwight said with an amiable smile, and offered him another slice of tenderloin.

From there, the talk circled back to the murder, and we speculated freely about how and why the super had returned to the apartment when he’d already made certain that there were no leaks in the ceiling.

“He probably didn’t trust us to call him if we’d seen any dampness,” I said.

“Maybe he came in at the very moment someone was stealing those pillboxes or the Streichert piece,” Elliott suggested.

“And the thief panicked and lashed out?” Dwight considered it, then nodded. “People can do stupid things when they feel cornered.” “Is it valuable?” I asked.

“Could be.”

“What’s a maquette anyhow?” Dwight asked.

“It’s a scale model for a larger piece. A way to work out proportions before trying to cast a final version.” “Would someone who came in to use the bathroom know what it was?”

“Well, Rathmann certainly would, and there were at least three others at Luna’s party tonight with a background in art. Maybe more. Her boyfriend is an artist who’s starting to make a bit of a name for himself. And yes, that maquette’s probably worth a few thousand. I still don’t understand how Sigrid’s grandmother wound up with something like that.” He glanced at his watch. “Almost two. Wonder what’s keeping them?”

As if on cue, one of the detectives appeared in the kitchen doorway with his parka zipped and the hood up. “Major Bryant? We’re finished here for now. Lieutenant Harald will probably be back tomorrow, but she said she’d call first and—” Elliott swung around sharply. “She’s already gone?”

“Yessir. Did she know you were waiting to see her?”

“I guess not,” he said with a rueful shrug that had me feeling sorry for him.

We were nearly through a second round of ale and he emptied his glass, thanked us for his impromptu supper, then stood to go. “Sorry to have kept you unnecessarily.” “No problem,” Dwight said easily.

We walked out into the deserted hall with him and rang for the elevator. The doors to the other two apartments were closed and there was a tucked-in-for-the-night feel. The portable coat racks were still there but the hangers were empty except for a gaudy Hawaiian shirt and a fake orchid lei.

“Looks like someone’s gone off with my overcoat and scarf,” Elliott said. “Unless Luna’s got it.” He checked his watch again. “A little late to ask her tonight, I guess.” The elevator door slid back and a beefy white-haired man