'I haven't seen him today.' I could have guessed how he was, but she could guess, too.
'The police are looking for his brother, aren't they?'
'That's what I hear.'
She poured cream into her coffee from a round jug. 'Tony used to work for me, before his father got sick. Spring, summer, and fall, as a laborer. I was sorry to lose him when he took over the restaurant.' She cupped her hands around her coffee. 'I don't have anything to offer him, except sympathy and money. He won't want
my sympathy. He won't want my money either, but he might need it.' She sipped at her coffee, was quiet a moment. 'I'll say this to Tony later, but I'll tell you now. If there's anything he needs—lawyers, whatever it is—I can take care of it.'
'Why tell me?'
'So somebody with a more level head than Tony will know what options he has.'
'You're right,' I said. 'He won't want it.'
'Trouble can be expensive. Especially . . .' she paused. 'Do you think Jimmy could have killed that man? I hardly know Jimmy. When he was young Tony brought him by occasionally.'
'Could have?' I said. 'He could have. I don't know anyone who couldn't, for a strong enough reason.'
She fixed me with her pale, disturbing eyes. 'Do you really believe that?'
'It's true. Reasons vary, but everybody's got one he thinks is good enough. If you're lucky you never get the chance to find out what yours is.'
She explored my face briefly, then looked away, as though she hadn't found something she had hoped, but not expected, to find.
The flashing, contrapuntal figures of the music filled the air around us. I put down my coffee, picked up the wrapped package. I laid it on the couch between us, unwound the paper, watched her face as she watched my hands.
At first she didn't react. Then her face drained of color and her hand went slowly to her mouth. She stared at the candlesticks and tray resting on the crumpled paper as though she needed to count every vein in every leaf engraved on them.
She reached out a hand. I stopped it with mine. 'Don't touch them. There may be prints.'
She looked surprised, as though she'd forgotten I was there. She drew back her hand, shook her head slowly. 'They were a wedding gift from Henri's mother,' she half whispered. She looked away, hugged her chest. Her face was still pale but her voice was stronger as she said, 'I deal with my memories in the way I can. I kept these, but I haven't looked at them in thirty years.'
I drank my coffee, gave her time.
'I'm sorry,' I said. 'You had to identify them. I didn't realize it would be hard.'
'No,' she said, shaking her head again. 'It's all right. What do we do now?'
'Two things. We try to lift prints from these, and we try to find the blond girl who fenced them.'
'What if she's not from around here?'
'I have a feeling she is. She could have gotten more for things like these in New York, or even Albany or Boston; if she's not local, why fence them here?' I put my mug down. 'You know, both finding the girl and identifying the prints would be a lot easier if you'd report this to the police.'
She flushed angrily. 'And when they found her and my paintings, the whole world would know who I am.'
'If this girl or anyone else has any idea what the paintings are, the whole world will know soon anyway,' I pointed out.
'Maybe she hasn't. Or maybe it won't occur to her that I made them, just because I had them.' She stood abruptly, paced the room, her hands in her back pockets. The dog, curled in the chair, lifted his head and followed her movements. She stared out the window for a time; then she turned again to face me. 'It's important,' she said. 'Maybe it's not rational. But I'm past apologizing for it. It's why I hired you in the first place. If you can't do it the way I want it done, I don't need you.'
The music had stopped, leaving nothing in the air but the fragrance of cinnamon and coffee and the weight of Eve Colgate's anger.
'I'm working for you,' I said. 'We'll do it however you want. But I've got to give you the choices the way I see them.'
She nodded, said nothing.
I rewrapped the silver. 'I'll send these to New York. There's a lab I use on Long Island that can pull the prints.' I stood. 'Can I use your phone?'
Lydia's machine answered my call. Well, that was okay; the machine liked me better than Lydia's mother did. Right now, maybe better than Lydia did. I told her to expect a package on an afternoon Greyhound out of Cobleskill, and that I'd call again and tell her when it was due. Then I called Antonelli's.
Tony's voice sounded hoarse and tired.
'How're you doing?' I asked him.
'Sick as hell. You?'
'I feel great. Maybe you should switch to bourbon.'
He grunted. 'Can't afford it.'
