There was another knock on the door, and Carol said, “That must be Mrs. Anderby. Please excuse me.”
Left alone, Alan walked toward the bar to see if Bill Valentine needed any help, and Kate wandered farther into the opulent room. There was the sharp, unpleasant smell of lilacs, and Kate turned and spotted a large bouquet on a waist-high, marble-topped table. Above the table was a tall oil painting, a portrait of Bill and Carol that looked like it had been painted about twenty-five years ago. Bill was seated, and Carol stood behind him, a hand on his shoulder. They looked the same except for their hair, Bill’s dark and just beginning to be streaked with gray, Carol’s fully blond. Alan appeared beside her holding two martinis, one with a lemon twist and one with an olive. He handed Kate her drink. Her hand shook a little, and the surface of the drink, poured right up to the lip of the glass, spilled over. Kate dipped her head and took a slurping sip of the ice-cold gin, some of which dribbled down her chin.
“God. I’m glad you were the only one to see that.”
Alan laughed, then turned as Carol came in with Mrs. Anderby, older than either Bill or Carol. She was short, with a slight dowager’s hump and hair that was thinning on the top, revealing her pink scalp. Carol introduced her to Kate, who was surprised by the firm grip of Mrs. Anderby’s plump hand.
“Yes, she is pretty,” Mrs. Anderby said.
“No,” Kate said. “It’s my name. It’s Kate Priddy. P-R-I-D-D-Y.” It was something she was used to having to explain.
“Oh, I see. Well, you’re also pretty, dear.”
“Thank you.”
It took a while, but eventually all the guests were settled in various seats around a white lacquered coffee table that held several small bowls filled with nuts and olives. Kate had finished half her martini, just to keep it from spilling, and she already felt the effects. She’d had plenty of gin, but never without tonic in it, and she decided that she liked this concoction, despite the little shivers she got every time she took a sip.
Bill Valentine was halfway through his martini as well, and explaining to Kate the history of the building they were in. “It’s the Italian courtyard that really sets this building apart from other similar buildings in the Flat of the Hill.”
“What’s the Flat of the Hill?” Kate asked.
“That’s our neighborhood—”
“Beacon Hill, really,” Carol said.
“No, not really. People say we live in Beacon Hill, but we’re not on a hill, are we? What we’re actually on is landfill that pushed the river back so they could create more housing. That’s why it’s flat.”
“Whatever it’s called, it’s the most beautiful neighborhood I’ve ever lived in,” Kate said.
Bill continued to tell Kate about the local history, including a long list of famous residents, none of whose names Kate recognized. Carol, meanwhile, grabbed Alan’s attention and began to talk with him and Mrs. Anderby. As Bill monologued on, Kate could hear snippets of the other conversation and realized they were talking about Audrey Marshall. She tried hard to stay interested in what her host was saying, but she kept straining to hear what Carol was saying—something about the incompetence of the police. There was about a half ounce of gin left in Kate’s glass, and she drank it down—it had warmed and now tasted harsher—and then ate her olive, hoping Bill would notice her empty glass and offer her a refill. His eyes flicked to her empty glass, and he swiftly finished his own. Kate asked him if he wanted another and began to rise, but he quickly stopped her and said he’d make them. He pushed himself with some effort up off the couch, and took both empty glasses back to the bar. Kate felt a pang of guilt, but she really wanted to hear what the others were saying. She slid along the couch so that she was closer to them.
Carol turned to Kate and said, “We’re talking about Audrey Marshall. I hope that doesn’t upset you. Nothing like arriving in America and finding out your next-door neighbor’s been murdered.”
“It’s officially a murder, then?”
“Oh yes, I think so.” Carol’s eyes darted from guest to guest for confirmation.
Mrs. Anderby, speaking in a deep, masculine voice, said, “Oh, it was murder. Sex crime, probably. It’s just not safe in the city anymore, even with a doorman. I told my son that I’ll have to