Three-Day Town - By Margaret Maron Page 0,35

of paper. “Here’s a list of all the employees and the outside service people that we use.”

“Could we see those personnel files?” Albee asked casually, but Mrs. Wall balked at that.

“I’m sorry, Detective. That would be an invasion of their privacy. The only reason I can give you Phil’s in good conscience is because it may help you find who did this awful thing.”

“What about a list of the building’s occupants?” asked Lowry.

“Those you could get from the directory at the front door, so I drew up a current list for you,” she said, handing him a third sheet.

“One further thing,” said Lowry. “How would you describe Lundigren’s marriage?”

Mrs. Wall hesitated, then pushed up one of the sleeves that had crept down over some of her silver bracelets and lifted the teacup to her lips.

The two detectives exchanged glances, both suddenly aware that Mrs. Wall had been using her tea as a stalling device throughout the interview.

“Was it a good marriage?” Lowry asked.

“You know about Denise’s condition?”

“Her social anxiety disorder?”

The older woman nodded.

“It was hard on Phil, but he absolutely adored her and was very protective of her. We all understood and we did what we could to help. There’s no way she could go out to work, you see. You may have heard that she cleans some of the apartments? I know Jordy uses her on a regular basis, and I started using her, too, when my last woman moved out to Long Island, so Denise is used to us, but if you were having unexpected guests and you wanted her to come clean the bathrooms and change the sheets because your own cleaning person couldn’t come, you would have to make the arrangements through Phil, and he would bring her up and tell her what had to be done because she simply couldn’t handle having to talk to unfamiliar people.”

“So you would say it was a happy marriage?” Albee persisted.

“He was very devoted,” said Mrs. Wall. “And very protective.”

“And what about her?”

Again that hesitation. “She needed him.”

True to Elliott Buntrock’s prediction, Luna DiSimone’s current boyfriend was lounging on her wicker swing when they walked into the apartment, and he gave her a sour look.

“Where the hell have you been? And why didn’t you answer your phone? I’ve been trying to call you for the last hour.”

Barrel-chested, with short legs, Nicco Marclay had once boasted a head of luxuriant red hair. Here in his twenty-seventh year, however, it had receded well past the crown and was now not much more than a fringe. He had taken to wearing flat golfing caps with narrow bills, and today’s was a tattersall check in shades of brown and gold that clashed with his red flannel shirt and jeans.

His truculence faded as he realized who was with Luna. “Oh, hey there, Buntrock. I was hoping to talk to you last night, but then things got crazy.”

Buntrock knew what “talk to you last night” meant. That was the opening feint of almost every artist on the make. It meant, “If you’re looking for the next Picasso to write about for The Loaded Brush, I’m your boy.” Indeed, it was his inclusion of Marclay in an article about emerging young artists two years ago that helped the man get into one of the better galleries.

“Wish you’d found me before you went off with my topcoat,” he said mildly.

“Was that yours? Sorry. I did bring it back, though.” He gestured to a stool at the bar that was now draped in a damp wool coat.

“What about my scarf?”

“Scarf? Didn’t see a scarf.”

“Check the bowl there by the door,” Luna said. “Anything I found on the floor this morning, I stuck in there.” She went over to the swing, lifted Marclay’s cap, and planted a kiss on his bald head.

“Dammit, Luna!”

“Oh, lighten up, Nicco. And you haven’t been calling me for an hour, because we talked thirty minutes ago. Did the Tiempo people call?”

“Yeah. They cancelled. Afraid of a little snow.”

“Just as well,” said Buntrock. To get to his scarf at the bottom of the large green glass punchbowl that Luna used as a catchall for keys and other odds and ends, he had to move a couple of phones, a tube of lipstick, a flamingo-shaped earring, and a pair of new-looking red rubber flip-flops. A lei of silk orchids had tangled itself around his scarf and it took him a moment to untangle it. “The police want to talk to us.”

“Us? Why? The only time I