“Pens?”
“Pins,” I said firmly. “Brooches. They’re not just girly stuff. I’ve read that when she was secretary of state, she used her pins to set the mood for some of her negotiations. We don’t have to stay long if you get bored, I promise.”
Bundled up against the cold, we were waiting for the elevator when the door at the end of the hallway opened and the blonde from the night before appeared. She wore a fuzzy pink sweater over flannel pajama bottoms and her bedroom slippers were stitched with pink rhinestones.
“Oh, good!” she said in her maddeningly familiar gurgling voice. “I was going to slip this under your door but now I can just hand it to you. I’m having a party tonight and I’d adore for you to come.” As the elevator door opened, she gave that impish, slightly conspiratorial smile we were coming to know. “If you’re part of the party, you won’t complain about the noise.”
“You’ll get enough complaints from five and seven,” today’s young elevator man warned her.
“Oh, pooh, Antoine! Who cares about them?” She turned back to us. “Things should get under way around nine-ish and I won’t take no for an answer.”
“We’d love to,” I said before Dwight could think of an excuse to decline.
“That one and her parties,” Antoine said with a grin as he pulled the cage closed. He didn’t look much older than the girl. Of medium height with a reedy build, he had honey brown skin, a very short Afro, and what the kids at home call a chinstrap beard, a narrow line of facial hair that followed the contour of his jaw. “They’ll have her up before the board again, you mark my words.” Those words carried a faint Jamaican accent.
“A New York party!” I told Dwight as we stepped out into the frigid morning sunlight. “A rowdy New York party. It’ll be fun.”
He gave me a jaundiced look, finished reading the invitation, and stuck it in an inner pocket of his parka before pulling on his gloves. “Luna DiSimone. Why does that name sound familiar?”
It did, but I couldn’t place the name either. “We’ll Google her when we get back,” I said.
We hurried down Broadway to the nearest subway station so that we could buy fare cards for the bus and trains. From behind, a sharp wind pushed us along, and I would have moaned about it except that I noticed that the people we passed who were heading into the wind all seemed to have their hats pulled low and their scarves high. The wind whipped tears into their eyes and gave everyone red noses. I turned up the collar on my coat, rewrapped my scarf an extra turn around the back of my neck, and tried to match Dwight’s long strides. No sauntering for him either.
The exhibit of Madeleine Albright’s pins at the Museum of Arts and Design had so much historical documentation that Dwight almost forgot that they were costume jewelry and enjoyed the witty symbolism. Who knew that woman had such a sense of humor?
From there, we rode a bus down to Chinatown, where we turned into full-out gawking tourists. We bought toys for Cal and his cousins and lengths of exquisite red-and-gold silk for Kate and for Dwight’s mother, who both like to sew. I saw a charming tea set that was almost beautiful enough to convert me from iced tea, but reason prevailed, to Dwight’s relief. Both of us were already loaded down.
Lunch was dim sum at a place that wasn’t much bigger than a broom closet, but the shrimp dumplings were perfection. When we came out of the restaurant, the temperature had dropped even further, although the wind had died down a bit. The sky clouded over and a light rain began to fall. Mindful of our heavy paper shopping bags, we headed for the subway and arrived at our stop on the Upper West Side minutes before the rain began in earnest.
“As long as it’s not snow,” we told each other as we rode up in the elevator.
“Eighty-five percent chance of snow before midnight,” Antoine told us cheerfully. “Hope the weather doesn’t spoil your visit.”
Back in the apartment, I realized I had left my phone on the kitchen counter and discovered I had a voice message from that 212 number: “This is Sigrid Harald. I believe you have something of my grandmother’s for my mother? Please call me before four o’clock.”
I glanced at my watch. Ten till four. I hastily punched in the numbers and this time was answered on the first ring.
“Ms. Harald?”
“Yes?”
I explained who I was and that Mrs. Lattimore had sent something to her daughter.
“What is it?”
“I have no idea. It’s a small but rather heavy little box.”
Sounding clearly puzzled, Ms. Harald said, “I wonder why she sent it up now when she knew my mother was going to be away for six weeks?”
“I gather she didn’t want to trust FedEx or UPS and she knows my husband is a sheriff’s deputy.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“And you know my grandmother how?”
“I think we’re distantly related through her Stephenson kin,” I said, realizing how stereotypically Southern I must sound to this no-nonsense voice. “But we’re staying for a week in Kate Bryant’s apartment because she’s married to my husband’s brother and—”
“Oh yes. Now I remember. Kate said you’re a judge, right?”
“Right.” Jake Honeycutt, Kate’s first husband, was Mrs. Lattimore’s nephew, and Kate had kept in touch with his people for her young Jake’s sake.
“Look, my mother’s in New Zealand and I have an appointment down here in the Village in a half hour. Would you mind opening the package and telling me what it is?”
“No problem,” I assured her, happy to have permission to satisfy my own curiosity. “Hang on a minute.”
