That too was true.
Sure, his bossiness had grated in their first months together when they were trying to figure out their rhythm, but over the years she realized that he’d never boss her around for the sake of being bossy.
When he insisted they do something, it was always with good reason. The man was very nearly always right, which was why…
“Okay then,” Jill said with a shrug. “The sister it is.”
“Good. She already knows we’re coming.”
Jill smiled, and they fell silent for the rest of the drive to Lenora’s sister’s place.
To a non–New Yorker, Dorothy Birch and her now deceased sister were practically neighbors. Dorothy lived on Eighty-Ninth and First, Lenora had lived on Eighty-First and Fifth.
On a map, they were close.
But in New York reality? They were worlds apart.
Not that Dorothy Birch lived in a hovel, by any means. Her Yorkville apartment building was a lovely prewar mid-rise with a doorman and carefully laid flowers outside.
It just lacked the splendor and prestige of Lenora’s Upper East Side brownstone.
As Jill stepped out of the car and looked up at the building, she wondered how much that distinction bothered Dorothy.
Yesterday when they’d come to deliver the sad news of her sister’s passing, Dorothy had been as distraught as one might expect.
Disbelieving at first. Followed quickly by shock.
Jill wondered if Dorothy had moved into grief yet. That was always the worst part… seeing the moment a family member moved beyond the shock and into the heart-wrenching reality that their loved one was really, truly gone.
It was easily one of the worst parts of Jill and Vincent’s job.
Vincent came to stand beside her. “What’re you thinking?”
Jill tilted her head back to look at him. “Why her? Why start with the sister?”
He shrugged. “Only surviving relative, save for the ex-husbands.”
Jill blew out a breath. “So no magical Spidey sense? Not one of your legendary hunches?”
Vincent shook his head. “Nope. Just good old-fashioned by-the-book investigating.”
“That’s the worst kind,” Jill muttered as she followed him into the building.
Dorothy Birch had indeed moved into the grief stage, if her puffy eyes and red nose were any indication, but she was remarkably poised as she carried a tray over to the coffee table.
Jill sat on the love seat and watched the older woman carefully.
Like her more famous sister, Dorothy Birch was tall, slim, although not frail, despite the fact that Jill knew her to be sixty-six.
Two years younger than Lenora had been when someone had shoved her to her death.
“You two are certainly up and at ’em early,” Dorothy said with a faint smile as she set down an antique gold tray on the table.
Dorothy had told them she was making tea for herself, and although she’d offered to make a pot of coffee as well, Jill hadn’t wanted to burden the grieving woman so she’d accepted tea on behalf of herself and Vincent as well.
A fact Vin was clearly not pleased about, judging from the glare he gave Jill when, with a sweet smile, she handed him his dainty teacup.
His big hand dwarfed the feminine-patterned china as he accepted it.
“Ms. Birch—”
“Dorothy, please,” the woman said as she settled onto the love seat opposite Jill. Vincent retained his standing place against the window. He’d never been good at sitting.
“Dorothy,” Jill said sincerely, “let us just say again how sorry we are for your loss.”
“Thank you.” The woman’s lips pressed together firmly, a trick that Jill knew could be quite effective in staving off a crying bout. “I don’t—Lenora is all I have. Had.”
“You never married?” Vincent asked rudely from behind Jill.
It was all Jill could do not to roll her eyes at his lack of sensitivity.
But Dorothy merely gave him a mild look. “No, Detective. Never married.”
“But Lenora was,” Vincent pressed. “Several times.”
Dorothy’s smile was genuine. “Yes, four times. Engaged two more than that, although those never came to pass. She always kept our last name though. Never took her husband’s on account of her being so famous.”
“Did you resent her for that?”
Oh, for God’s sake. Jill could shake the man.
“Well, resentment would have been pointless, now, wouldn’t it?” Dorothy said, leaning back, lost in thought. “Some say my sister was rivaled only by Marilyn Monroe in terms of her legendary appeal for men.”
“That must have been—”
Jill cut Vincent off before he could further insult a grieving woman who’d been nothing but cooperative and kind thus far.
“Did Lenora keep in contact with any of her exes?” Jill asked.