Three-Day Town - By Margaret Maron Page 0,40

the next corner, Hentz.”

“You got it,” Hentz said as he stopped for a red light.

Buntrock fastened the top button of his coat and began winding his scarf around his neck in preparation for facing the bitter winds that whipped through the unplowed cross streets. “When’s your next gig at Smalls?”

“Tomorrow night, as a matter of fact.” He pulled in as close to the curb as possible. “Here okay?”

“Fine. Thanks for the lift. See you at the Arnheim reception next week, Sigrid?”

“I haven’t decided,” she said.

“I’ll call you,” he told her, opening the door. Two strides of his long legs and he was over the snowbank and onto the sidewalk. Without looking back, he gave a high wave of his hand as he walked away.

Hentz forgot to flick his turn signal when he pulled back into traffic, and an annoyed limo driver gave him a horn blast and the finger as he swerved around their car.

At the hospital, they inquired at the desk for directions to Denise Lundigren’s room. Once on the proper floor, Sigrid asked for her doctor and was told that he expected them. “He’ll be finished with rounds in about ten minutes,” a nurse said, “but I’ll let him know you’re here.”

By now it was well after twelve, so Sigrid excused herself and walked down to the end of a quiet hall to call her grandmother.

The same soft voice as before answered the phone. “I’m so sorry, Miss Harald. Mrs. Lattimore said for me to apologize when you called. She said to tell you that she was invited to Sunday dinner with another friend out in the country and that she’ll try to call you tomorrow, unless you want to leave a message…?”

“If you would, tell her it’s about the package she sent my mother and—Oh, never mind. I’ll talk to her tomorrow,” Sigrid said and hung up feeling unsatisfied and slightly uneasy.

For better or worse, that maquette was involved in Phil Lundigren’s murder, so niceties be damned. She pulled Mrs. Lattimore’s letter from her purse and worked her fingernails up under the flap until it pulled loose.

My dear Anne,

I’ve spent these past few months sorting through the house, ridding myself of decades of mindless stuff. I’ve labeled the items I’ve heard one of you girls admire or that I think you or one of your own children might like. As for this disgusting object, I had completely forgotten that it was locked in an old suitcase up in the attic until my Smithsonian magazine arrived before Christmas. How I acquired it is not important. What is important is that it be returned to the sculptor’s family—perhaps to the granddaughter who gave the interview?—and that the return be managed discreetly without my name coming into it. Surely you or Sigrid must know someone in the art world who can be trusted to do this? The first time I saw it, I realized that it was a piece of racist vulgarity. Nevertheless it is probably a valuable piece of racist vulgarity and not mine to destroy or keep.

Mother

Puzzling as it might be not to learn how her grandmother wound up with something she found disgusting at first sight, Sigrid knew it would be pointless to ask if she had decided not to tell. Maybe when Anne came home? Her mother and grandmother spoke the same language, a language that could charm confessional secrets from a priest, and one that Sigrid had never mastered. Yes, let her mother deal with it, she decided.

Down by the nurses’ station, a short fat white-haired man had approached Hentz, who immediately signaled to her.

When she joined them, he held out his pudgy hand. It was like shaking hands with marshmallows. “Dr. Penny, Lieutenant. I believe you wanted to speak to me about Mrs. Lundigren?”

“Is there someplace we can talk privately?” Sigrid asked.

He led them to a small room down the hall that held a couch and two armchairs. Although Sigrid and Hentz remained standing, he took the farther chair and said, “I’m sure you realize that Mrs. Lundigren is not one of my regular patients, so I don’t have her whole history. Even if I did, I could not discuss the particulars of her case.”

“We understand that, Doctor. We only want your professional opinion. Is she stable enough to answer questions?”

“As long as you don’t get too close physically or try to force her to make eye contact.” He glanced at his watch. “I think I’ve established a bit of trust, and if you