Three-Day Town

adorable in a coral gym suit and a silk hibiscus behind her ear. She held a platter full of assorted canapes and hors d’oeuvres covered by a sheet of plastic wrap. Over her shoulder I saw that she’d left the door to her apartment standing wide open at the other end of the hall.

“I was hoping you could take some of this food off my hands,” she said. “The party broke up so early, I’ve got tons of the stuff left. Oh, hi, Elliott. Do you know these people?” She laughed at her own question. “Well, of course you do or you wouldn’t be here, would you? Have you seen the snow? Isn’t it just gorgeous? Nicco keeps calling me to bitch about it, but I love snow, don’t you?”

Without being invited in, yet never questioning her welcome, she walked past me and put the platter on the table. Dwight and Elliott had come to their feet, Elliott unfolding himself one storklike joint at a time as he leaned over to accept her kiss on the cheek.

“Don’t let me interrupt your breakfast,” she said with that gurgling lilt that made her commercials so easy on the ears.

“Please,” I said, gesturing to one of the empty chairs. “We’re pretty much finished. Can I get you a cup of coffee? I just made a fresh pot.”

She circled the table to sit next to Elliott and smiled happily. “Coffee would be absolutely wonderful. Black, please, and no sugar.”

I brought it to her and said, “I think you left the door of your apartment open.”

She dismissed my warning with an airy wave. “That’s okay. Everybody’s honest on this floor.”

Elliott cocked his head at her. “Luna, you do realize that someone was killed here last night?”

A shadow crossed her smooth face. “Poor Phil! It’s so awful. I still can’t believe it. He was so sweet when he brought up the coat racks for me last night. I absolutely had to force him to take a tip. Who on earth do you think could have done that? It must have been someone who pretended he was invited to my party. Sidney’s going to be so mad at himself when he realizes what he’s done.”

“The elevator man? What’d he do?” Dwight asked.

“He brought the killer up, didn’t he? Without asking if he was one of the people I’d invited.”

Elliott frowned. “He wasn’t checking IDs when I came up, and I didn’t see a list.”

“I didn’t give him one, but—”

“But he should have recognized the mark of Cain on the killer’s forehead and refused to let him get on the elevator?”

“Okay, I guess that was silly,” Luna admitted with another graceful wave of her hand. “But none of my friends are killers. Honest. I won’t say they wouldn’t stab you in the back if they thought it would get them a part in a TV series, but really kill? Never!”

“Any of your guests have sticky fingers?” Dwight asked casually.

Luna half turned in her chair and her eyes widened as if she were seeing him for the first time and rather liked what she saw. Her eyes moved deliberately down his muscular body and she reminded me of a golden retriever when it suddenly spots an unguarded bone.

“Sticky fingers, Dwight? It is Dwight, isn’t it?”

He nodded. “Several of your guests were in here last night.”

“And something’s missing? What?” Her eyes swept the dining room and vestibule in undisguised interest. “I just realized that this is the first time I’ve been in Jordy’s apartment. How do you two know him anyhow? I don’t think he’s ever been further south in America than the Village, so you must have met him here. And this place is so him, isn’t it? Traditional landscapes, old pieces of wood furniture. Oh, look! Are those strips of stained glass original to these windowpanes?”

She didn’t seem to expect any answers to her cascade of questions, and when she stood up and walked toward the living room, there was no way to stop her short of putting my foot out to trip her.

“Where did it happen? In here? Ewww! Is that Phil’s blood on the floor? How could you stand to stay here last night, Deborah? Doesn’t this gross you out? It would me. I’ll give you my cleaning guy’s number. You certainly can’t ask Denise to come and clean up her own husband’s blood, now can you?”

I suppose I should have taken offense, but her chatter and her questions were those of an artless child. Dwight, Elliott, and I exchanged raised eyebrows and the three of us trailed her into the living room in time to hear her shriek, “My cat! Oh my God! That’s my Oaxacan cat! How did it get here?”

She snatched up that brightly painted handcarved wooden cat from the side table. Graphite smudged her fingers, but she didn’t seem to notice. Cradling it protectively in her hands, she looked at Dwight and me in bewilderment. “Did you take it?”

“Certainly not,” I said indignantly. “Last night was the first time I noticed it.” I appealed to Dwight. “Did you?”

He shook his head. “When did you last see it, Miss DiSimone?”

“Oh no!” she wailed, her long blonde tresses swirling around her face. “Please, Dwight. Don’t go formal on me. I’m sorry. Of course you and Deborah didn’t steal it. I know you didn’t. I’m so confused by all this—Phil getting killed, my party messed up, police taking down our names like we’re criminals—I’m not thinking straight.” She set the cat on the nearest surface and clutched the sleeve of Elliott’s Yamaha sweatshirt with both hands, leaving traces of fingerprint powder. “Elliott, tell them I didn’t mean it like that!”

Shaking his head at her dramatic apologies, he said, “What can I tell you? She’s an actress. She needs a scriptwriter to keep her on track.”

He looked at his watch and frowned. “I wonder what’s holding Sigrid up? Luna, dear, stop posturing and tell me that my overcoat and scarf wound up in your apartment last night.”

“Was that your coat? I knew it belonged to somebody really tall and skinny. It was still on the rack last night when Nicco had to leave. He could barely get it buttoned and it was practically dragging the floor on him. He had to