Lotty’s workday starts at six. I left early, my mood benign enough to take on dull household tasks: I put my laundry away, cleaned the mold out of the bathtub, washed down the kitchen cabinets and floor. The bedroom could use a vacuuming, but my domesticity spreads only so far. I planted myself in front of the piano and began picking out a fughetta with slow, loud fingers.
It’s possible, as the detective at the Trianon had said yesterday, that my dad would have loved to see me follow in his footsteps, but I knew my mother would not. She wanted me to live a life of erudition if not artistry, to inhabit the milieu the second World War had destroyed for her—concerts, books, voice lessons, friends who lived for music and art. She had made me learn both piano and voice, hoping I would have the vocal career the war had taken from her. She certainly would have resented anyone who called me a blue–collar girl.
I moved from the fughetta to warming up my voice, which I hadn’t done for several weeks. I was finding my middle range when the phone rang. It was Morrell.
“Ms. Warshawski. I’m in the neighborhood. Can I come up for a minute?”
“I’m not ready for company. Can’t we do this on the phone?”
“I’d rather not. And I won’t be company—I’ll be gone so fast you almost won’t know I was there.”
I’d changed into cutoffs for my housework, and my arms and legs were streaked with dirt. So be it. If he wanted to drop in on me unawares, he had to take me as I was. I went back to my middle voice and let Mr. Contreras and the dogs answer the bell when Morrell rang.
I waited a minute before going out to the landing. My neighbor was interrogating Morrell: “Is she expecting you this late at night, young man? She never mentioned you before that I ever heard of.”
I laughed a little but ran down the stairs in my bare feet before the woman who lived opposite Mr. Contreras came out to complain about the noise. “It’s okay. He’s got some information for a case I’m working on.”
I introduced Morrell to Peppy. “This is the police dog. The big guy is her son. And this is my neighbor and good friend, Mr. Contreras.”
The old man had been looking hurt that I hadn’t told him about Morrell earlier, but my introduction appeased him slightly. He took the dogs back inside the apartment after only a very small discourse on how I needed to let him know what strangers to expect when the police were on my butt.
Morrell followed me up the stairs. “I suppose with a neighbor like that you don’t need a security system. Reminds me of the villages in Guatemala, where people seem to look out for each other more than we do here.”
“He drives me crazy half the time, but you’re right: I’d feel mighty lost without him.”
I ushered Morrell to the stuffed armchair and sat astride the piano bench. In the lamplight I saw that his thick hair was streaked with white and the laugh lines around his eyes were more deeply grooved than in his book–jacket photo.
“This really will take only a minute, but my years in South America make me nervous about giving confidential information over the phone. I managed to find Nicola Aguinaldo’s mother. She didn’t know her daughter was dead. And she definitely doesn’t have her body.”
I looked at him narrowly, but there’s no real way to tell whether people are lying to you or not. “I’d like to talk to Se?ora Mercedes myself. Can you tell me where you found her?”
He hesitated. “She’s not likely to confide in a stranger.”
“She confided in you, and last night you assured me you’d never laid eyes on her.”
His mouth twitched in the suggestion of a smile. “I’ve talked to a couple of people about your work, and they were right: you are a very astute observer. Can you please take my word for it, that Se?ora Mercedes doesn’t have her daughter’s body?”
I picked out a minor triad in the bass clef. “I’m getting fed up with people pushing me toward Aguinaldo with one hand and pulling me away from her with the other. There’s something wrong with how she died, but you seem to be joining the group of break–dancers writhing on stage, saying, “Watch,’ “Don’t watch.’ I need to find someone who knows about Aguinaldo’s private life. Her mother may not, but her kid might. Children know a lot about what their mothers get up to.”
He drummed his fingers on the chair arm, thinking it over, but finally shook his head. “The trouble is, the more people who talk to Se?ora Mercedes, the riskier her position becomes.”
“Riskier how?”
“Deportation. She wants to stay in America so that her surviving granddaughter can get an education and make something more of herself than being a nanny or a factory hand. I can try to find out something for you, if you’d like. . . .” His voice trailed away, leaving it as a question.
I agreed somewhat grumpily. I hate leaving a crucial piece of an investigation in someone else’s hands, especially when I don’t know anything about his skills.