Three-Day Town

A uniformed officer appeared in the doorway. “Lieutenant? There’s a Mr. and Mrs. Rice here with their attorney. I put ’em in interview room A.”

“Thank you, Sergeant. Hentz?”

The Rice attorney was urbane in a charcoal pinstripe suit. He introduced his clients, assured Sigrid and Hentz that they were more than happy to cooperate in this terrible tragedy, then took a seat beside them.

In appearance, husband and wife were almost polar opposites. She was small and dark and impeccably dressed in a designer suit and thigh-high leather boots. He was big and blond and could have stepped out of a Lands’ End catalog—turtleneck beige sweater, brown corduroy pants, and hiking shoes.

In temperament, however, they were mirror images—indignant to be here, irate at having to answer questions, indifferent to the death of a super they felt had thwarted their rights, and clearly irritated that this session necessitated their attorney, whose hourly fee would probably mean one less designer suit for Mrs. Rice.

“I believe your interest in my clients relates to the death of the building’s superintendent?” asked the attorney.

“That’s correct,” Sigrid said. “It seems that there was personal animosity toward him.”

Both Rices started to argue and justify, but the attorney raised a restraining hand.

“Whether or not what you say is true, am I correct in thinking you wish to know if they have an alibi for the pertinent time of the man’s death?”

Mrs. Rice sneered and Mr. Rice huffed at the word “alibi.”

“Correct,” Sigrid said. “Can they prove where they were between nine-thirty and, say, eleven?”

“Certainly.” He drew a sheet of paper from his briefcase. “Here are the names and addresses of four people who dined with my clients from eight till ten-forty over on the East Side, as well as the doorman who let them in and out and who knows them by sight. I have included a photocopy of the receipt from their taxi. You will see that it is time-stamped eleven-oh-eight.”

“Excellent,” Sigrid said. She passed the paper on to Hentz. “Thank you for coming.”

“That’s it?” asked Mr. Rice. “That’s all you wanted to ask?”

Mrs. Rice was similarly stunned. “We dragged our attorney here with us and this is all? Well, why didn’t those detectives tell us that? We could have saved a lot of time and money.”

“I believe they tried,” Sigrid said coldly. “You refused to listen and told them you had nothing to say.”

“But we thought it had to do with our lawsuit.”

“No.”

“Damn!” said Mr. Rice, his beefy blond face turning an unhealthy red as he glared at their attorney.

Mrs. Rice picked up her expensive leather purse and stood to go. “Living on the Upper West Side is like living among Bolsheviks. The sooner we move back to the East Side, the better.”

When alone in her office, Sigrid dialed her grandmother’s number. Once more the soft-voiced woman answered. Sigrid identified herself and the woman immediately said, “I’m so sorry, Miss Harald. You just keep missing her. She asked me to apologize for not calling you back and to say she’s visiting a sick friend. I did tell her you had concerns about the package she sent your mother. She forgot that Mrs. McKinnon was away and she wants you to open it and do with it whatever you think is best.”

“When do you expect her back, Ms…. I’m sorry, but I don’t know your name. Have we met?”

“I’m Chloe Adams, Miss Harald. I met you when—” She broke off, then continued smoothly, “when you visited Miss Jane back when you were in high school and I was helping out here. That was years ago and I’m sure you won’t remember. Now, I’ll be sure and tell her you called.”

“Wait!” Sigrid said sharply, but she was too late. Chloe Adams, whoever she was, had hung up.

Chloe Adams. Chloe Adams? The name almost connected with a long-ago memory that she could not pin down. Troubled, she looked in her address book and dialed another 919 number.

After five rings, Kate Bryant’s cheerful voice said, “You have almost reached the Bryants. Please leave a message.”

Frustrated, Sigrid hung up.

After a lifetime of dealing with her mother’s Southern speech patterns, she had learned that what a polite Southerner says is not always what a polite Southerner means. She mentally replayed her brief conversations with Ms. Adams until she finally pinpointed what it was about the woman’s words that had her puzzled.

“Your grandmother told me to say…”

“Miss Jane said for me to tell you?”

“She asked me to say she’s visiting a sick friend.”

Not a straightforward “she’s visiting a sick friend,” but “she asked me to say she was.” The subterfuge of a truthful woman who would not lie herself but would relay the lie? Why was Grandmother avoiding her calls? Was it that maquette? Was there something illegal about how she acquired that thing that made her unwilling to talk to a granddaughter who was also a police officer?

Once more Sigrid scrolled through her address book, and when the connection went through she said, “Judge Knott? Deborah? I’m sorry to keep interrupting your vacation, but could I come by this afternoon? Shall we say around three?”

CHAPTER

17

Snow mingles with the dust, is churned dirty by hoofs and wheels, and, if it melts, soon makes a slush underfoot.