“I was wondering when you last saw Mrs. Simonova?”
She shrugged. “A few days ago, I expect,” she said. It certainly didn’t matter to her if I stopped by; I only did it out of courtesy, which is something that was foreign to that woman. Once upon a time we exchanged little gifts at this season. I made an effort; she gave me those same ridiculous Russian dolls every year.” Mrs. Hutchison looked at me. “I didn’t like her. That’s what you’re asking? I didn’t visit much. He went every day.”
“Dr. Hutchison?”
“And don’t think he was there for the doctoring.” Celestina Hutchison snorted. “God knows what he saw in her, so ugly. Big raw bones, that woman, ugly as sin.” She drank more tea. “That help you, detective?”
The bitterness was so virulent you could smell it.
When I didn’t answer, she shifted the topic. “Will you attend the party tonight?”
“I’ll try.”
“Dear Carver always does it up nicely. He tries so hard.” She slipped back into her ladylike manners. “He has so many troubles with this wretched building. I wish him well. I do. Most of the other old folk don’t like him. They’re so set in their ways.”
“Why’s that?”
“Carver tries to give good advice, tells us that should we decide to sell up, he’ll help us out, buy the apartments for top dollar. He already owns quite a few of the apartments, but I do hope he’s not in financial trouble.” She giggled. “It’s not only the Jewish people like Mr. Madoff who play this game, no, indeed.” She stood up. “What else do you want to know?”
“What else is there?”
“We’re like characters in a play up here on the top floor. Relics. Like those Southern characters out of Lillian Hellman or Mr. Tennessee Williams-you ever see those plays? That’s us, except we’re black.” She paused. “What a thought. And Carver wants this particular attic cleared out of all us old people. We’re worth a fortune to him. We have the grand apartments-seven rooms, nine rooms. All he has to do is clean them up, do over the lobby, then sell for a bundle. Well, for my part, he can buy this one. I would retire to the sunshine faster than you can say Jack Robinson. But Lionel is so damn stubborn.”
“You know a lot about Carver Lennox.”
“He has nice manners. When he came to the building, quite some years ago now, he introduced himself. I have to say I really established him in the building, talked him up, helped him get on the board. He was always grateful. I wanted him to feel right at home, and the building is, as you see, a little village.”
“I see.”
“Do you? Carver never knew his mother-he was adopted-and he saw me as the family he never had.”
“Right. And your husband? He’ll be at the party?”
“He won’t be up to it. I’ll leave something in the oven for his supper. I always make sure he’s safe and sound before I go out.”
“You just lock him in.”
“Well, he’s a bad, bad boy, you see, and I never know what he’ll get up to with all his ideas. I can’t trust him.”
In her imagination, Lionel was old, forgetful, unconnected to reality. It made her feel she was the powerful half of the couple.
I finished the tea and asked if I could use the bathroom. She gestured to the hall.
The bathroom had cracks in the plaster and broken tiles. I washed my hands with soap that smelled of almonds then left and went along the hall into a small office, where the shelves were full of CDs, old LPs, medical books, and volumes of poetry.
On the desk was a laptop as well as a portable typewriter. Hurriedly I looked through some of the drawers, listening for Mrs. Hutchison.
In one drawer I found some mail addressed to Lionel. Hearing footsteps, I stuffed them in my pockets, took a brochure from the desk, and pretended to study it.
“You found what you wanted? Your snooping around produced something for you?” said Celestina.
I held out the button I’d taken from Simonova’s dead hand.
“You found that in here?” Mrs. Hutchison asked. “It’s from this jacket I’m wearing. My husband’s, of course.”
“I found it in Mrs. Simonova’s hand this morning,” I said.
“So he was there. Yes. I thought so.” Anger crossed her face. For a moment she was silent, staring at something on the desk. It was the brochure I had been looking at.
“This interested you?” She picked it up. “Why is that?” she said. “It’s just some of Lionel’s nonsense. He joins all these silly societies.” She took the brochure from the desk and tore it in four, tossed the pieces in the wastebasket. “That sad old man I’m married to, all he thinks about is death, and just because his little brother had some pain sixty years ago. Ridiculous. I don’t understand him anymore,” she said, almost to herself. Then she smiled brightly, arranged her yellow cap, and added, “Well, I guess we are all entitled to our beliefs.”
I didn’t answer her.
“I always say life is life, after all. Don’t you agree?” She let out a humorless little laugh.
I held out the button again. She shook her head.
“Keep it,” she said. “Perhaps it will lead you to something. Perhaps it will help you find Marianna’s killer.” She paused. “Ha ha, of course I’m joking. Can’t believe old Lionel would do that. But you, detective, isn’t that what you do? Find the killers?”
CHAPTER 26
V irgil Radcliff caught up with me as I was leaning on a railing across from the Armstrong overlooking Jackie Robinson Park, trying to catch my breath, get some air.
“Hey.” Virgil leaned next to me and lit up a cigarette.
“Where’ve you been?”
“Upstairs,” he said. “I got my car out back, and when I was pulling onto Edgecombe Avenue, I saw you. What’s going on?”
All the time I had been on the roof, then with Celestina Hutchison, he had been with Lily.
“I thought you had a bunch of fucking cases to work?” I said.
“I had to take a break. I’m going to be on all night,” said Virgil. He looked up. The snow had finally stopped; the temperature had dropped. “Jesus, it’s cold.”
I didn’t know if Lily had told him about Simonova’s letter, that the Russian had left her everything. I didn’t feel like sharing, not then.
“How do you think Lily is doing,” said Virgil.
“I don’t know. You?”
“I think she’ll be fine once the funeral is over. Tomorrow, it’ll be better,” he said and then I knew she hadn’t told him, not about the letter, and I wondered why.
“I have to go,” said Virgil. “You have my numbers if you need me, right? Listen, Artie, you should go the party with Lily. I’ll probably be working all night.”
Nice to have the boyfriend’s permission, I thought.
“If you drive, take it easy. Lot of black ice under the snow.”
“Right.” I knew he wanted something.
“Streets up here can be bad. Hills, inclines can deceive you. Weirdest damn thing happened on election night, you know? Just a few blocks south.”
“What’s that?”
“So, there was this van that was parked on that street, and some asshole left the hand brake off, and it just slid down the street, and around the corner.”
I didn’t say anything.
“There was nobody in it. Nobody. It was just this empty silver van.”
