boy. “He and the other boy, Mark? Are they good friends?”
“I guess. They horse around at their lockers, but there’s no way they could get into mine.”
“Two minutes ago you were saying there was no way anyone could post on your Facebook page. If you left your page unprotected you could’ve left your locker unlocked.”
“No way,” he said stubbornly.
“Do those boys have the same lunch period as you?”
More off-phone chatter, then Lee said, “A.K. says they have second lunch with his group.”
If A.K. was standing right there, it’s a safe bet all his teenage cousins were, too. Between them, they could cover a lot of ground.
“Get the others to see what those two were doing during lunch. And ask that freshman girl if she saw anybody fooling around with your locker today.”
“Thanks, Aunt Deborah. I will. Everybody says tell you hey.”
I heard a chorus of heys in the background. Before I could make any further suggestions, he broke the connection. He’s a gentle boy, but maybe his sister and his cousins would teach him something about the art of intimidation.
Had Phil Lundigren’s death happened back in Colleton County, I would now be taking his widow a plate of homemade sausage biscuits, a casserole, or a cake I had baked myself. Food is the universal offering for a house of mourning when all the relatives pour in and need to be fed. Doing something tangible for the bereaved allows friends and neighbors to feel a little less helpless in the face of death. Hell, I’ve even carried a casserole to a presumably grieving widow, only to later learn that she was the one who had planned her husband’s murder.
I had no idea if Mrs. Lundigren had an alibi for Saturday night, nor even whether the marriage was a happy one. Hoping I wasn’t repeating that past mistake, I rummaged in the refrigerator for a wedge of Brie that Dwight had brought home from the market yesterday. An unopened sleeve of crackers and a bunch of grapes would have to sub for a casserole. I arranged the cheese and crackers on one of the pretty paper plates I found in the cupboard, placed the grapes in the middle, and covered everything with plastic wrap. When the gardenia plant arrived, I freshened up and rang for the elevator. The man on duty was still Sidney, who was starting to feel like an old friend by now.
He gave a smile of approval when I told him the flowers were from Kate. “That sounds like her. When my father died last year, she sent a beautiful wreath even though she hasn’t lived here for going on five or six years.”
I asked him which was the Lundigren apartment and if he knew whether or not Mrs. Lundigren was at home. “We heard she had to be hospitalized when they told her about her husband.”
“Yeah. One of the porters said she came home around lunchtime today. Told me she was quite chatty in fact.”
“Chatty? Kate said she had an anxiety disorder that made it hard for her to talk to people.”
“Not today. Vlad says Denise talked to him more today than the whole time he’s worked here. The friend that brought her home from the hospital told Vlad that the doctor gave Denise some pills that were better than three martinis.”
When I got off the elevator, Sigrid and her team of detectives were conferring with a teenage boy in a far corner of the lobby. She had her back to me and the others didn’t seem to recognize me behind all the cellophane and ribbons. Sidney told me that the Lundigren apartment was around the corner, so I decided to mind my own business and stay on task. I did not want to risk being asked about Chloe Adams again.
“Mrs. Lundigren?” I said to the large heavyset woman who opened the door when I rang.
“No, I’m her friend Alice Rosen. Do come in. Denise is in the den.”
I tried to say I didn’t know the woman and was here only as an emissary of my sister-in-law, but it was useless. The woman was already disappearing down a hallway like a white rabbit, so I followed her through a small living room that looked like an illustration from Better Homes and Gardens into a room that was not quite as pretty but had a more lived-in air.
Denise Lundigren was nestled at the end of a couch upholstered in a flowery print. She had her feet tucked up under