in both cheeks. Sans makeup, her face showed only the subtlest signs of a skilled plastic surgeon’s work around the eyes, chin, and neck.
We walked through a foyer into a spacious living room with a small, retro 1950s aluminum Christmas tree in the corner. The hardwood floor of almost black mahogany set off stark white walls covered with framed black-and-white prints. The furniture was mostly white, the tables and lamps all chrome and glass. A large fireplace of white brick dominated one wall of the large room, but there was no fire—and no sign there ever was one. The hearth looked as clean as a convent’s kitchen floor.
Along the mantel, I noticed an array of photographs, all framed in heavy silver. There were a number of pictures of Vicki at various ages; other pictures appeared to be of friends and relatives. Not one photo of Alf.
Mrs. Glockner neatly set aside a few black throw pillows, then sat down on her sleek sofa of white leather—not a scuff or smudge on it. With a gesture she invited me to take a seat in a matching chair.
“I expected you later this afternoon, but since you’re here now, it’s good that we can just get this over and done with.” She smiled widely. “I hope you brought the check for me!”
I blinked. “Excuse me. What check?”
“You’re kidding, right? You do have papers for me to sign?”
“I have a few questions for you, Mrs. Glockner. That’s all.”
The woman’s sunny disposition clouded and a thunderous flash of pique bolted across her pretty features. It suddenly reminded me of her daughter’s mercurial moods—I’d seen plenty of them when the girl had worked for me.
“I thought I answered all of your questions,” she said, almost petulantly.
“I’ve never spoken with you before, Mrs. Glockner.”
“I can’t believe you people don’t talk to each other down at that office!” She threw up her hands. “How can you make a profit when you don’t manage redundancies like this!”
“What?”
She stared at me and I stared back. “You’re from the insurance company, right? You’re here to close out my late husband’s policy.”
“I’m sorry you misunderstood, Mrs. Glockner. I’m not from any insurance company. I was simply a friend of your late husband’s.”
She sat back, smirking, and crossed her long legs. “A friend of Alfred’s, huh? What kind of friend?”
“Alf was a customer at my coffeehouse. I also employed your daughter, Vicki, at one time; and to tell you the truth, Mrs. Glockner, Vicki was the one who asked me to step in and look into her father’s murder. She has concerns that the detectives on the case are on the wrong track—”
“Well, she’s right about that!” The woman cried. “Two of them showed up at my real estate office to question me—and on one of my busiest days, too! The jerk with the red, white, and blue babushka almost scared one of my clients off for good!”
“You’re talking about Detective Franco?”
“Yes, that was his name.”
I raised an eyebrow at that. Why would Detective Franco bother to interview Shelly Glockner? Oddly thorough for a cop who claims he’s only looking for an ordinary street thug in a random mugging.
Mrs. Glockner shook her head. “That’s always been one of my Vicki’s many problems.”
“What has?”
“She’s just like her father. Can’t let anything go!”
I gestured to the Alf-free pictures on the mantel. “I can see you don’t have that problem, do you?”
“Why?” Mrs. Glockner narrowed her eyes. “Because I don’t keep my husband’s picture around for sentimental reasons?”
“I understand. I know he was about to become your ex-husband.”
“New York State law requires that a couple live apart for a year before a divorce can be finalized. We’d just reached that merry milestone when Alf began dodging my lawyers. Not that it matters now.” She sighed. “You see, Ms. Cosi, I met Alf in high school. We married a year after graduation. Vicki was born later—a pleasant surprise after years of thinking we couldn’t even get pregnant.” With a deep breath she rose, crossed to the mantel, and reached for a framed photo tucked behind the others. “We spent more than thirty years together, but this is what Alf truly loved.”
She shoved the framed photo into my hands. It was an old one, showing a younger, slimmer Alf standing under the green awning of his restaurant: Alfred’s. Beneath the name, in much smaller print were the words Steaks, Chops, Fine Wine.
“It was a traditional New York-style steakhouse bordering the La Tourette Golf Course. He borrowed and borrowed and