I joined Evalyn on the sidewalk.
“You could try the phone number,” she suggested. “You could ask about them at that little food market next door.”
“Maybe they’re in the church, closed or not,” I said, shrugging, and went up and knocked on the narrow Entrance door. Nothing. I could hear something going inside, something that sounded like a motor. I put my ear to the door and there was definitely something going on in there. I tried a second time, knocking so hard the glass rattled. Then I could hear the motor stop.
And the door cracked open.
“Yes?” she said.
She was still very pretty, though she had a double chin now; the eyes were just as brown, flecked gold, the face creamy pale, the lips full and sensuous, though untouched by lip rouge at the moment.
“Hi, Sarah,” I said.
“Do I know you?”
“Yes. Just a moment.” I walked down the steps to Evalyn and said, “See that little cafe across the street? Get yourself a cup of espresso.”
“But Nate—Nathan!”
“I have to handle this one alone.”
Evalyn’s mouth formed a thin tight line; she wasn’t used to being told what to do. But she nodded, and I watched her cross the street, her heels clicking. A cabbie honked and she gave him the finger. A gloved one.
“That’s my girl,” I said under my breath.
I returned to Sister Sarah Sivella, watching me from the cracked-open door of her storefront temple.
“I remember you,” she said, and her smile was very faint. “I remember that night with you.”
I grinned at her. “I thought you might. Your husband home?”
“No.”
“Good. You want to talk in your apartment downstairs, or in the church?”
Her eyes tensed. “How did you know the downstairs apartment was ours?”
“Well, I could be psychic,” I said. “Or just a detective.”
She let me in. Pleasantly plump now, she was wearing a simple black frock, the sort of thing Evalyn might wear, if she had only a buck ninety-eight to spend and no jewelry. A Hoover stand-up vacuum cleaner leaned against the wall—that had been the sound I’d heard through the door. The walls were stark, as blue as the painted-out window, up to the chair rail, then whitewashed above. There were half a dozen rows of hard, stiff chairs, facing a pulpit, with a blue curtain behind. It looked more than a little like the death chamber at the New Jersey state prison.
She shut the door; locked it. “I didn’t expect to ever see you again.”
“Working the same old case,” I said, hat in my hands.
Her unplucked eyebrows met in thought. “The Lindbergh kidnapping…?”
‘That’s right. Let’s sit down, shall we?”
Rather tentatively, she did, pulling up one of the chairs. I pulled mine around so I could face her.
“But the man who did that is in jail,” she said.
“Is he?”
She moved her head to one side, to avert my gaze. “Actually—in the trance state, Martin says I’ve said otherwise.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. I’ve said, in a trance, that this German is not the kidnapper. That there were many persons in this plot. Four who did the kidnapping. One of them a woman. One of them dead.”
“Is it the woman who’s dead?”
She shrugged shyly; her long dark hair bounced on her shoulders. “That’s all I know. I only know what Martin tells me. I have no memory of what I say, in that state.”
“Well, you could’ve meant Violet Sharpe.”
Her eyes flickered. She said nothing.
“Violet was in your congregation, wasn’t she?”
She swallowed.
I reached out and squeezed her arm; not quite hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to make a point. “Wasn’t she?”
She nodded.
“Sometimes she came to services,” she said. “I’m not sure she was a member.”
“Who else?”
