Three-Day Town (11 page)

“Who’s she?” asked Hentz.

“Chair of the co-op board.” A loud buzz interrupted him. “Gotta go.”

“One minute,” said Sigrid. “Lowry, you and Albee go talk to this Mrs. Wall. See if Lundigren had a personnel file. You know what to look for.”

They nodded and stepped into the elevator. Sidney looked at the remaining three dubiously as he pulled the brass accordion gate closed. “What about you? You can’t get to the stairs without a key.”

Hentz jingled the key ring they’d taken off Lundigren’s body. “We’ll manage.”

Followed by Dinah Urbanska, he and Sigrid walked across the Arts and Crafts ceramic tile floor and turned a corner into a short hall that led to two doors. One was for the fire stairs. After three tries, Hentz found the key that unlocked it. Inside the stairwell was the service elevator. While one could exit from the stairwell without a key, the door could not be left unlocked for access from the lobby side. The elevator here was larger and more modern than the one out in the lobby and it appeared to be self-service when they rang for it. The doors opened automatically without a key. Like the stairwell, the floor of the car was spotless and even gave off a strong smell of a pine-scented cleaner. The elevator walls were hung with quilted plastic pads, and there was the usual panel with a button for each floor.

Urbanska looked at Hentz and stated the obvious. “So once someone’s on an upper floor, they can get down and out, but if you don’t have a key, the only way to get up is on the front elevator that’s manned twenty-four/seven?”

“So it would appear,” he said.

They stepped back into the hall and Hentz unlocked the door to the Lundigren apartment. They were met by a white Persian cat that mewed loudly upon seeing them.

Urbanska immediately stooped and crooned reassurances, her hand stretched out to the animal. Cautiously, the cat sniffed her fingers, then rubbed against her knee and accepted her strokes. When Urbanska stood up, the cat walked to the archway that led deeper into the apartment, looked back at the young woman, and gave a soft cry.

“He’s probably hungry,” she said. “Okay if I look for his food?”

Sigrid, who had never owned a pet and was not particularly fond of cats, nodded.

Urbanska glanced around the little jewel box of a living room. “Pretty room,” she said.

“Doesn’t look as if it gets much use, though, does it?” asked Sigrid.

The small space was indeed pretty, but as impersonal as a doctor’s waiting room. No family photos, no magazines or newspapers, nothing out of alignment. Behind the gauzy white curtains, a window overlooked a narrow alley that probably led to the street. Although sparkling clean on the inside, the window was dirty on the outside and was not only barred, but painted shut as well. Hentz noted that there was a ramp up from the basement and that someone had swept it clean within the past hour, for there was only a light dusting of snow.

“Seems to be letting up,” he said as he dropped the curtain.

Beyond the formal living room lay the kitchen, bedroom, bath, and a den that had probably begun life as a dining room. Everything was neat and tidy, but the den was clearly where the Lundigrens had done their living. A large plush recliner faced the plasma screen, and the remote lay on a table beside the chair along with a copy of
TV Guide
and Al Gore’s book on climate change.

All very masculine, thought Sigrid.

The couch was probably Denise Lundigren’s usual seat. It was upholstered in a bright floral print and several ruffled cushions picked up those colors and formed a cozy nest at one end. A half dozen shelter magazines were neatly stacked on the shelf of the nearest end table. Here, too, were the photographs that had been missing in the living room, but all seemed to be of Denise. Denise as a pretty little girl in a ruffled dress and patent leather Mary Janes. Denise in a high school cap and gown. Denise in a polka-dot dress on the observation deck of the Empire State Building. Denise curled up on this very couch with that white cat in her arms.

But none of Phil. And none of anyone else.

Out in the kitchen, they watched Urbanska spoon a small tin of cat food into a delicate china saucer that sat on the floor beside a matching bowl of water. Here, white tiles, white cabinets, and white appliances were brightened by floral dishtowels and pot holders. The magnets on the refrigerator were enameled cats and flowers, and the magnetized shopping list—
soap, carrots, cat food, O.J.
—continued the motif. A tall narrow window at the end of the room had been frosted, then fitted with glass shelves that held a collection of shiny crystal animals, mostly cats but also porcupines, rabbits, and birds, each one cut and faceted to reflect light from every angle. The bottom shelf was reserved for small glass perfume bottles that looked to be handblown. The thin glass stoppers were fanciful swirls, and they, too, glittered under the lights that were concealed at the top of the window.

“She must wash those things every day,” Urbanska marveled. She rinsed out the tin and put it in a waste can under the sink. “My aunt collects crystal figurines and they’re always dusty.”

The bedroom was clearly decorated by and for Denise. A floral perfume lingered on the air here. The white furniture featured curlicues and piecrust and was stenciled in thin gold lines. The king-size bed was outfitted with ruffled pillow shams and matching dust ruffle, floral comforter, and pale blue sheets. The comforter had been turned back but only one side of the bed was rumpled. A biography of Eleanor Roosevelt sat on the nightstand next to the unrumpled side.

“Looks like she went to bed alone while her husband—” Urbanska caught herself and looked at Sigrid in confusion.

“Husband’s fine for now,” Hentz told her. “Keep thinking of our victim as a man and you won’t slip up when you’re questioning the others.”

Sigrid said nothing, but doubted if Urbanska could stop herself from turning red every time she was reminded of the victim’s true sex.

Urbanska doggedly continued. “So she went to bed and he went up to check on the noise. Why would he go into a different apartment?”

“The night man said that he hadn’t seen Lundigren all evening, so he probably took the stairs or the service elevator,” said Hentz. “Did we check to see whether 6-A’s service door opens onto the main hall or a back hall?”

“I saw a service door in the kitchen,” Sigrid said, “but I couldn’t say where it went.”

As they returned to the search, the white cat came in and wound himself around Urbanska’s legs. She gave him an absentminded stroke and he jumped up on the bed to begin washing himself.

A dainty dressing table held little bottles of creams and lotions, additional fragile perfume bottles, and a chrome makeup mirror that was framed in lights. Opening a side drawer, Sigrid found a tangle of costume jewelry and a blue velvet jeweler’s box. Inside that was an elaborate crystal necklace and a handwritten gift card:
Happy anniversary, xoxo, Phil.

One drawer of the tall dresser held masculine socks and underwear, the other four drawers were filled with lingerie and feminine sweaters.

Ditto the two closets. Denise’s was stuffed to overflowing with the usual women’s apparel. Phil’s held three brown coveralls in plastic dry cleaners’ bags, a brown suit, several shirts and ties, a sports jacket, and four pairs of slacks.

In the bathroom’s medicine cabinet were over-the-counter painkillers, vitamins and calcium supplements, first aid remedies, Band-Aids, and three prescription bottles. One was an antidepressant in Denise’s name. Another, also in her name, held mild sleeping pills. The third, in Phil’s name, contained pills to control high blood pressure.

Once they had walked through the apartment, they spread out to search more intensively. On the floor at the back of Denise’s closet, underneath three rows of shoeboxes, Urbanska found a cardboard box with dividers that had originally kept jars of mustard from bumping against each other. Each compartment was now stuffed with even more shiny knickknacks. She saw a crystal long-stemmed rose, a pretty cloisonné pillbox, a kitten of frosted gray glass, a porcelain shepherdess figurine, a pink glass perfume bottle, and a silver Santa Claus bell that tinkled when she picked it up.

“What’s that?” Sigrid asked.

“Looks like her overflow collection. She probably switches them out with each other. That’s what my aunt does, anyhow.” Urbanska paused and almost to herself murmured, “My aunt doesn’t have any children either.”

At the end of another ten minutes, they had found nothing with writing on it except for that one card and the shopping list.

“Everybody has papers,” Sigrid said. “Bills, bank statements, insurance policies. Where are theirs?”

The cat followed them back through the apartment.

“I guess he’ll be okay,” Urbanska said with a concerned look on her face. “I put out some dry food, too. And fresh water. The litter box was pretty clean, too.”

“You looked?” asked Hentz, amused.

Before he took them up to the twelfth floor, Sidney Jackson used the house phone to tell Mrs. Wall that two detectives were there to see her, and she was waiting at the door when Elaine Albee and Jim Lowry stepped off the elevator. Mid-fifties and confident with it, she was small and slender and carried herself like someone who was used to being photographed at opening receptions and charity functions. Her straight silver hair curved to frame a pointed chin, and ragged bangs softened her strong forehead. She wore black stretch pants and a slouchy black sweater with the sleeves pushed up to show several silver bracelets. Despite the laugh lines and wrinkles, she had beautiful skin, and her only makeup was lipstick that had almost worn off. She might have started the morning with mascara and eye shadow, but her hazel eyes were red-rimmed now and they realized that she had been crying.

They introduced themselves and Mrs. Wall invited them into an apartment that was harmoniously furnished in earth tones and sturdy Arts and Crafts oak furniture. Craftsman touches were everywhere, from the rugs on the wooden floors to the brass lamps and slatted wood radiator covers. An earthenware teapot and a full cup of hot fragrant tea sat on a hammered brass tray atop the coffee table, and they declined her offer to bring more cups.

“Everybody in the building is just devastated by Phil’s death,” she said when they were seated. “All sorts of rumors are flying around. Please tell me what really happened.”

“The only thing we know is that he was struck down in apartment 6-A sometime between nine-thirty and eleven,” said Lowry.

Mrs. Wall sat there slowly shaking her elegant head and her eyes filled up again. “He was just the dearest man. There’s no way we’ll ever find someone half as good again. Why was he killed, Detectives? He never hurt anyone or anything. Not even spiders. Our middle child used to go all Annie Hall on us whenever she saw one, and if my husband or I were out, Phil would come right up and catch it in a plastic cup and put it out on the balcony.”

“How long had he worked here?” Albee asked gently.

Struggling to keep her voice steady, Mrs. Wall said, “We moved in seventeen years ago and he was here at least two years before that.”

“What about Mrs. Lundigren?”

It seemed to Elaine that Mrs. Wall’s lips tightened when she said, “Denise? We’ve heard that an ambulance had to be called when they told her. Will she be all right?”

“I think they expect to let her come home later today.”

The older woman shook her head. “Poor woman. Her condition is so…” She hesitated, searching for the right word. “… so fragile. I honestly don’t know how she will manage without Phil.”

“Do either of them have family?”

“I never heard him mention anyone. He listed Denise as next of kin when he applied for this job, and I do know he had a mother who died about eight years ago, because they went up for the funeral.”

“Up?”

“To New Hampshire. That’s where he was from originally. I don’t know if that’s where she’ll want to go, but part of the super’s salary is the free apartment and we’ll be needing it for Phil’s replacement.”

“Is the building a co-op or condo?” Albee asked.

“Co-op,” Mrs. Wall replied, which meant that the tenants were technically shareholders, not owners, who paid the building’s monthly expenses based on the size of each apartment. Newcomers who wish to buy into a co-operative building have to be approved by the building’s board, unlike a condo, where the conditions are less constrictive and tenants hold regular deeds to their own individual apartments.

Mrs. Wall’s silver hair swung forward as she leaned over to retrieve a thick file folder. “I was looking at Phil’s records this morning to notify the insurance company. One of his benefits was a policy the board took out on his life with Denise as the beneficiary.”

“How much are we talking about?” asked Jim Lowry.

“A quarter-million. I know that’s not much in today’s economy, but it should allow her to start a new life. If she can. But here.” She handed him the folder and her thin bracelets tinkled softly against each other. “I made copies of the job application he filled out when he first came, along with his references. I wasn’t on the board then, of course, but it all seems very straightforward and I see no reason you shouldn’t have it.”

Elaine Albee looked over his shoulder as Lowry opened the folder and read through the simple job application form. Their eyes immediately went to the box labeled
Sex
and saw that the
M
had been checked.
Marital Status
had the
M
checked, too. He turned the sheet over and they saw three references listed.

“Do you know if the board actually checked these references?” he asked.

“Probably not,” she replied with a sad smile. “I’m told that the building had been without a reliable super for several months. I don’t know who found Phil, but he came over in an emergency and handled it so promptly and without any dramatics that the board practically begged him to apply for the full-time position.”

She took a sip of tea and cradled the cup in her hands. “Besides, anyone could see that Phil was competent and dependable and so honest that he could make George Washington look like a pathological liar.”