Three-Day Town

Chapter


15


Inevitably comes the snow; and that in a city is always regarded as something of a misfortune. Up in Central Park and along Riverside Drive it looks very beautiful.



—The New New York, 1909



The street in front of the apartment building had not been plowed when Dwight and I got outside, although it was clear that some trucks or other vehicles had driven through, because the snow had been flattened down to ice in the middle. The sidewalk out front was fairly clear but elsewhere there was barely enough room for two people to pass. We walked single file around the corner to Broadway, where the boot vendor had spread his wares on a plastic shower curtain atop a pile of snow. His boots had flat heels and were made of clear plastic with elastic loops and some buttons near the top so that they could be put on over shoes and slacks and then tightened around the calf. They reminded me of my Aunt Zell’s gardening boots except that hers were made of heavy vulcanized rubber. I rather doubted these flimsy things would get through more than one or two wearings, but at least they would keep the snow and ice out for now.

We walked down Broadway to 72nd, then two blocks over to enter the park near Strawberry Fields and the memorial to John Lennon. With the temperature hovering right around freezing, there were lots of puddles and slushy patches, but Dwight swung me over the rougher spots.

The park was magical. All the lampposts and every twig of every branch was rimmed in soft white. The benches carried thick cushions of snow, but someone had cleared the “Imagine” mosaic and a bouquet of fresh flowers made a bright spot of color against the black-and-white tiles.

A mother and child passed us on skis, and we followed a family carrying inflated pool tubes to a slope where dozens of children were sliding in high glee. I never saw so many different contrivances: tubes, sleds, and molded plastic sliders of every description. Maybe two years out of seven, Colleton County will get enough snow to go sledding. When that happens, we rummage through the sheds and barns for old patched inner tubes and flat-bottom trays or makeshift sheets of heavy plastic.

As we stood at the top of the rise to watch the activity, a nearby couple picked up on our accents and said, “Guess you guys don’t get much of this, do you?”

“We were just saying we never knew anyone with a real sled,” I told her as two red-cheeked preadolescents trudged up the hill with their tubes and announced that they were ready for some of the hot chocolate from the Thermos their mother was holding.

The dad conferred with his sons, then said, “Want to take a turn?”

We didn’t have to be asked twice. Seconds later we were spinning downhill laughing like kids when our tubes collided.

“You could go again if you like,” said the boys, who were now dunking cookies into their steaming cups of hot chocolate.

After two more runs, we were pretty winded and they were ready to reclaim their tubes. We thanked them profusely and moved on.

Crossing a humpbacked little stone bridge, we paused to look down at the water. Although there was ice on each side of the stream, enough of a channel remained that a mother wood duck and some half-grown ducklings were able to swim past. The mother duck wheeled and paddled back to look up at us with a hopeful gleam in her black eyes. She quacked and I patted my pockets. Empty. But Dwight found a little packet of crackers from God knows when. The cellophane was wrinkled and the crackers were already reduced to crumbs. He emptied them into the water, setting off a greedy fight.

“We’re probably not supposed to feed them,” I said, and Dwight laughed.

“If they aren’t used to being fed, then why’d that mama ask for a handout?”

We passed a group of teenagers putting the finishing touches on a tableau that represented Goldilocks and the three bears. A little further on, a snow Eve offered a snow Adam a real, bright red apple. No fig leaves in sight.

After two hours of trudging through the snow and taking pictures of incredibly beautiful vistas, we had circled back around to the 79th Street entrance, past the Museum of Natural History. By now we were cold and hungry and we found a sandwich shop where we could sit by the window and watch the passing parade with hot coffee and franks nestled in buns loaded with sauerkraut. Snow had begun to fall again from the lead-gray sky.

“How come we never have sauerkraut on our hot dogs at home?” Dwight wondered, wolfing his down.

“Because we never have it on hand?” I asked. “Or because we automatically reach for coleslaw and chili?”

“Maybe. This sure is the taste of New York, though. You gonna eat the rest of yours?”

I handed it over, and while he finished it off, I turned on my phone and checked for messages. Nothing of importance.

Four-thirty and heading for dark now. Daylight had faded, streetlights were coming on, and fresh snow was falling so thickly that I had to hold on to Dwight’s jacket as we mushed back to the apartment building. Central Park’s beauty had allowed us to forget about the murder for a couple of hours, but now Dwight was wondering if Sigrid and her people had learned how and why Phil Lundigren had died in our apartment.

“Maybe they’ll extend you some professional courtesy,” I said. “She owes it to us to at least tell how Mrs. Lattimore acquired that bronze thing.”

He swung me over a puddle of dirty water at the next intersection. “You reckon professional courtesy’s in her vocabulary? She doesn’t strike me as the talkative type.”

“That’s okay. I’ll bet there’s a pretty active grapevine in the building. And we can always bribe the elevator man with a midnight snack.”


When we got to our corner, Dwight said, “Do you want to go out tonight or eat in?”

With the snow coming down so steadily, that was a no-brainer. “Why don’t I stop in this liquor store for some bourbon while you go see what your market has to offer?” I said.

He grinned and kissed me on the forehead. “I knew there was a reason I married you.”


North Carolina still has a monopoly on selling distilled spirits, which means no private liquor stores. This can be a real annoyance if you want a decent blackberry cordial for your champagne or some esoteric brand of whiskey and it’s not on the ABC list. Competition keeps whiskey slightly cheaper in New York and I’ve never noticed more drunks here than back home. Of course, I do get a lot of alcoholics in my courtroom, so maybe I’m getting cynical about blue laws.

I paid for the bourbon and carefully crossed the street, avoiding a wave of dirty slush splashed from a passing bus.

When I walked down the street to Kate’s apartment building, a man roughly the same height and shape as Phil Lundigren was cleaning the sidewalk out front with a snow blower. Dressed in the building’s brown coveralls, brown work gloves, and a brown knit stocking cap on his head, he finished with the blower and began to scatter salt on the few stubborn patches of ice that remained. He gave me a friendly smile when I pulled out Dwight’s keys, and he held the outer door open for me.

Before I could insert the key in the inner lobby door of the building, Sidney hurried over to let me in. On the ride up to the sixth floor I discreetly tried to pump him for information about the investigation. Other than saying that the police had left only minutes earlier, he had heard nothing new. Nothing that he was willing to share, anyhow.

Back in the apartment, I put my boots and my coat in the guest bathroom’s shower stall to drip dry and changed into a long skirt and a pair of sexy high heels. Shoe stores are for me what grocery stores are for Dwight, and we’ve both been guilty of sneaking our purchases into the house when the other wasn’t looking.

While I waited for him to come back, my eyes fell on Luna DiSimone’s little wooden cat and it occurred to me that maybe she had heard something.

Out in the kitchen, I transferred the party food that she had brought over onto a plate from the cabinet, washed and dried her platter, then left the door on the latch for Dwight, who should be getting back soon burdened with shopping bags.

When I rang Luna’s bell, she came to the door still dressed in the coral gym suit she’d had on earlier. It didn’t look quite as fresh as before, though. The hibiscus was gone from behind her ear and her hair was pulled back in an unbecoming ponytail that only accentuated her long chin. Nor was her apartment as invitingly funky and festive as last night. After hiking through snow for two hours, I found that bare wood floors and summery patio furniture had lost their appeal.

But she was still as friendly as if we’d been best friends forever. “Deborah! How lovely!” she caroled in that distinctively attractive voice as she threw the door open wide and took both the platter and the cat from me. “You’re just in time to help us put my house back together.”

As she spoke, two men came through a far door struggling with a large rolled-up carpet. One was the Nicco Marclay I’d heard about this morning. I recognized him from the party because he wore a flat cloth golfing cap similar to the one he’d had on then. Probably going bald and hating it.

The other was Cameron Broughton, and he rolled his eyes behind those pale blue lenses when Luna introduced us again. “Deborah’s from North Carolina, too, Nicco, and she and her husband are probably the only two in the state with absolutely no connection with Cam. Another myth shattered.”

Luna had stashed her rugs in the back service hall and now the guys were helping her put everything back. She told me she had wool and velvet slipcovers to go over the summer furniture, including the swing and the Adirondack chairs. Linen cloths would cover all the glass-topped tables and gas logs would go back in the fireplace as soon as someone packed up all the white candles and driftwood candlesticks that were in the fireplace now. She gave me a hopeful look reminiscent of that mother duck in the park, but I smiled sweetly and said I really wished I could stay and help, “But I only came over to return your plate and your Mexican cat.”

“Love the shoes,” she said. “Blahniks?”

I didn’t deny it. If she couldn’t tell four-hundred-dollar Blahniks from forty-five-dollar no-names, why should I enlighten her?

“Did Lieutenant Harald have any idea how the cat got over there?” I asked.

“I don’t think she cares. She was more interested in knowing who came to my party that might know about art. Like Cam and Nicco.”

I looked at Broughton. “You’re an artist, too?”

He shook his head and turned his back on us to help Luna’s boyfriend straighten the rug.

“Oh, but you are an artist,” Luna insisted. “Cam designed this room for me, Deborah, and found all the right pieces. Wait till you see it with all its winter clothes on.”

“Which isn’t going to happen tonight,” said Nicco Marclay. “I’m ready for a drink.”

As I apologized for the interruption and made to go, she gestured to a large green glass bowl on a nearby table. “You didn’t lose a phone last night, did you? Or a tube of lipstick?”

I glanced into the bowl at the lost phones, keyrings, pill bottle, and lipsticks and did a double take. “That’s my earring!” I grabbed the red rubber flip-flop that had my missing gold earring embedded in the sole and said, “Whose flip-flop is this?”

For a moment I thought Cameron Broughton was going to claim it. He gave me a startled look, then bolted through the back door. The elevator dinged from down the hall behind me and I turned to see Dwight emerge. Snow covered the brim of his hat and he was loaded down like a Sherpa guide.

“Catch you later,” I told Luna as I whirled away. “Thanks again for the food and the great party.”

A moment later, I was pushing open the door of 6-A for Dwight. I threw the flip-flop on the vestibule sideboard and helped him take some of the bags into the kitchen. He stowed some ale in the refrigerator and stooped to pick up a lemon that had rolled off the counter.

“Nice shoes,” he said as he straightened up. “New?”

I waggled one foot at him and lifted a carton of outrageously expensive buffalo cheese. “They were right next to the fresh mozzarella,” I said.