“A funeral. I’m sorry. Was it a friend who passed away?”
“My fellow employee, Mrs. Hartmann. You remember, I had just visited her when you came to the store the other day.”
I nodded. “You said she was suffering from some kind of grippe, but she was improving.”
“She was. At least, she seemed to be.” Emily’s voice cracked. “But she must have had a relapse. Or perhaps she put on a good front for me, because she died the very next day. Such a nice woman too. A widow from Germany. Kind. Highly educated and had worked for Mr. McPherson for years.” She lowered her voice and glanced into the back room. “He’s very cut up about it. Ned’s with him now, helping him get ready.”
So Mr. McPherson did have a heart after all.
“I’ll leave you then,” I said. “My condolences. Should I stop by on Sunday to give you my report, do you think?”
“Yes, yes. By all means,” she said, but I could tell she was still distracted. At that moment Mr. McPherson emerged from the back of the shop, with Ned following at a respectful distance.
“Are you ready to shut up shop, Miss Boswell?” Mr. McPherson called. He looked positively hollow-eyed and his face was a mask of distress.
“Very good, sir,” Emily said.
“This way, Mr. McPherson, sir,” Ned led him forward. “Shall I go and find us a cab?”
I beat a hasty retreat.
Eight
Saturday arrived and still no answer. I hoped this Mr. Ketler was still alive and in good health. I hated to be held up like this and paced around the house, wondering what to do next. The words spring cleaning did enter my mind, but I realized that I owned no carpet beater, my step was relatively clean, and the most I was prepared to do was take down the curtains and give them a good shaking. I was doing this when Sid and Gus emerged from their house.
“Good heavens, Molly. Such industry,” Sid exclaimed.
“I have been shamed into doing my spring cleaning for want of anything better to do,” I confessed. “You know me. I simply can’t sit around doing nothing.”
“Then come with us,” Gus said. “We are off to an exhibition of French painters at the Metropolitan Museum.”
“Gus is wildly enthusiastic about the neoimpressionist movement,” Sid said with a chuckle. “She has spent the last week trying to paint entirely in little dots like Seurat.”
“And all I succeeded in doing was painting a picture that looks as if it has the measles,” Gus said.
“Nonsense. I think it’s quite good in its own way,” Sid said kindly.
“But then you’re biased,” Gus pointed out. “Anyway, Molly, we’re off to get more inspiration. My aim is to paint a masterpiece this year or die in the attempt.”
“Don’t joke about such things,” I said. “Too many people have died this spring. Healthy young people like us. And I was with Emily Boswell yesterday. Her fellow assistant died only this week.”
“She’s right,” Sid said. “Let’s have no talk of death. Now, Molly, are you going to put that revolting curtain back where it belongs and come with us?”
“It is rather revolting, isn’t it?” I looked at the faded velvet critically in the harsh spring light. “But it came with the house when I bought it. Perhaps my task for this spring should be to make new curtains, although my mother always said my children would go naked if they had to rely on me sewing their clothes.” As I said this I took the offending article back inside and climbed on a chair to re-hang it. A goodly amount of dust still flew out of it as I threaded the rings onto the rod.
They laughed. “Luckily your brave captain will be able to give you a clothing allowance by the time you have children,” Sid said. “Where is he these days? We haven’t seen him all week, apart from that brief appearance with lecture on Sunday.”
“He’s working on an important case that he won’t discuss with me,” I said. “I’ve hardly seen him since he was reinstated.”
“And how long ago was it that you were complaining that his constant presence was too much of a good thing?” Gus asked sweetly.