Three-Day Town - By Margaret Maron Page 0,74

her and ruffled pink, red, and green pillows cushioned her back. She was small and pretty with dark hair and dark vivid eyes. I judged her to be in her early fifties. A large white cat sat purring on her lap and she gave me a tentative smile when I entered.

I set the gardenia plant and the cheese plate on the coffee table and introduced myself. “I’m Kate Honeycutt’s sister-in-law,” I said, using the name that would be more familiar to this woman, the name Kate still used for her professional work.

Denise Lundigren brightened. “Kate! She was here last spring. She brought me a crystal cat.” A smile played on her lips as she stroked the white Persian. “Did you know Jake?”

I shook my head.

“They were so much in love. Just like Phil and me. And Jake was murdered, too, wasn’t he?”

Tears ran down her cheeks and her friend nudged the box of tissues on the coffee table closer to the woman.

“Does her new husband love her?”

“Very much.”

“She’s so lucky. I’ll never find anyone else like my Phil,” she sobbed.

“Now, Denise, honey,” said Mrs. Rosen. She moved onto the couch and cradled Mrs. Lundigren’s head on her ample bosom.

“Look at me!” she wailed. “You know how I am, Alice. Nobody else is ever going to love me like he did.”

I was alarmed, but the other woman just made soothing noises and kept patting her back. Eventually Mrs. Lundigren quit crying, wiped her eyes, and blew her nose.

“Everyone says your husband was a good man,” I said gently. “But everybody has enemies.”

She sat upright with one hand on Mrs. Rosen’s arm, the other on the cat. “Not Phil.”

“He never had words with any of the staff?”

“Well, he did think Antoine might not be working out. Sometimes he stays after his shift is over and Phil’s found him in places he’s not supposed to be.”

“What sort of places?”

She shrugged. “Upstairs in the halls or on the service landings. Sometimes down where people store their bikes and stuff.”

“What about the residents?”

“Everybody liked him. Everybody except the people in 7-A. They said they were going to sue Phil, but he wasn’t worried.”

“Sue?” asked Mrs. Rosen. “Why would someone sue Phil?”

“Because he told the board all the things they’ve done. They said they were going to sue him for slander. Or was it libel?” She looked at me. “When Kate emailed Phil to say you were coming, she said you were a judge, so you must know which it is.”

“Probably slander,” I said. “Libel is usually written lies and slander is spoken lies.”

“Phil never lied,” she said flatly. “He couldn’t.”

“Did the police tell you how he died?”

She nodded. “Were you the one who found him?”

“Yes,” I said and described Saturday night. The party. The unlatched door. Finding her husband on the balcony.

When I finished, Mrs. Lundigren said, “They told me someone could’ve followed him in or else someone was already there stealing some of Jordy’s things and he saw them. Now maybe he’ll believe me.” Fresh tears trickled from her dark eyes. “Or he would if he was still alive. He thought it was me every time, even though I knew it wasn’t.”

She stared down at her cat and stroked him with gentle crooning noises.

Sidney had told me about her kleptomania. Embarrassed, I looked at her friend, who mouthed a word I couldn’t understand.

“Go ahead and say it out loud, Alice,” Mrs. Lundigren said angrily. She turned to me. “I’m a crazy person. Kleptomania. You know what that means.”

I nodded.

“They say it’s a sickness. I say I’m crazy. I don’t even want the stuff. Phil knows—knew—I didn’t. But I can’t help myself. I try, but… do you think I’m crazy?”

“No,” I said, as gently as I could.

“Phil says it really doesn’t matter. We are what we are. But I’ll tell you this. I’m not the only one who takes things.”

“There’s a real thief in the building?”

“Well, it’s not all me! I didn’t take anybody’s jewelry, I don’t care what they say.”

She gave an impatient shake of her head, shifted the cat onto the couch, and leaned forward to undo the cellophane on the gardenia plant. As the florist had promised, it was covered in fat pale green buds. Two creamy white blossoms had already opened. Mrs. Lundigren took a deep sniff and smiled. “How did Kate know I love gardenias?”

Back upstairs, I switched on the lamps in the living room, poured myself a glass of Riesling, and curled up on the brown leather couch with