Three-Day Town

Sigrid shrugged. “If they’re valuable and if someone wished to steal two or three, putting an equally colorful object in the middle of them might distract a casual eye from noting the loss.” She restored the figurine to its original position, and even though it really didn’t go with the exquisite little boxes, I realized it could indeed serve as a decoy.

Intrigued, Elliott Buntrock began to lift the boxes and hold them up high so he could study the markings on their bottoms. For some reason, he reminded me of a long-ago springtime on the farm when two of my brothers decided to raise chickens for a 4-H project.

“You ever sex biddies?” I asked.

His lips twitched. “What?”

“Baby chicks. You look at their bottoms to see whether they’re male or female so that you don’t wind up with too many roosters.”

“I grew up on the East Side,” he said dryly. “Not many baby chicks there. But this one’s got a hallmark on its little bottom. Probably gold, if I’m not mistaken. Could be worth a tidy sum.” He carried it over to the French doors to study it in better light.

“I don’t suppose you found a pillbox in the victim’s pocket?” Dwight asked as we moved back to the vestibule.

“Or my other earring?” I asked.

Sigrid shook her head. “Sorry.”

While we had been distracted by the Mexican cat and the pillboxes, Detective Hentz had stepped into the hall to answer his phone, and now he said to Sigrid, “Lowry and Albee are on their way down, Lieutenant.”

“Good.” She turned to Dwight. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, Major, that if anything about last night occurs to either of you—”

“No,” Dwight said. “You don’t. And we do have your number.”

“Oh wait!” I cried. “When I pulled all the bubble wrap out of the box that Mrs. Lattimore sent, we found an envelope.”

I darted into the dining room and retrieved the envelope we’d left on the table beside the magazine pages. When Elliott realized what was happening, he hastily set the box back on the table and joined us.

To my disappointment, Sigrid merely turned the envelope in her hand, then put it and the magazine article in the pocket of her white parka.

“Come on, Sigrid,” Elliott complained. “Aren’t you going to tell us what she said?”

“It’s not addressed to me,” she said coolly. “Shall we go see how Miss DiSimone’s getting on with her guest list?”

Okay, I had wanted them to clear out and leave Dwight and me alone, but it was frustrating not to know what was in Mrs. Lattimore’s letter.

Elliott slipped on his jacket and gathered up his overcoat. “Thanks again for sheltering me from the storm. If you’re free one night, perhaps you’ll let me treat you to dinner?”

“That would be great,” I said before Dwight could say no.

We exchanged phone numbers, and when everyone was gone, Dwight shook his head in amusement. “You don’t fool me, honey. You’re hoping he’ll find out what Mrs. Lattimore wrote.”

“Aren’t you at all curious, too?”

“Maybe, but I’m more patient. Besides—” He took a business card from his pocket and flourished it. “Detective Hentz gave me his card. He’s playing at that jazz club down in the Village tomorrow night. I thought perhaps we could buy him a drink.”

CHAPTER

11

There is the reach for happiness—the attempt to gain it by and through possessions.

—

The New New York

, 1909

SIGRID HARALD— SUNDAY (CONTINUED)

Last night, apartment 6-C had seemed as packed with festive beachcombers as a Hamptons jitney on an August weekend. Today, through the open front door, it looked more like Coney Island on the Tuesday after Labor Day. Plastic wineglasses and half-empty drink cups littered the surfaces. Bits of food had been ground into the planks of the floor and the colored toothpicks that had held tasty morsels were scattered everywhere. Several black plastic trash bags were heaped in the middle of the oversized living room. One was stuffed and already tied shut. Luna was still adding to the other three: wine and liquor bottles in one, aluminum cans in another, while a fourth bag almost overflowed with food-smeared plastic plates, napkins, and other party detritus.

With dainty fingers and an expression of distaste on her pretty face, Luna DiSimone lifted a napkin filled with olive pits by the edges and dropped it into that trash bag.

“Miss DiSimone?” Sigrid said as they paused in the doorway.

“Yes?” She brushed a tress of long blonde hair back from her face and her frown turned instantly to sunshine. “Are you the police Elliott said wanted to talk to us?”

“I’m Lieutenant Harald and these are Detectives Hentz and Urbanska,” she said, “and yes, we did want to