“Okay.” I turn my phone on to check for any messages—there are several, most work-related that I’ll ignore, one about a mattress delivery for later today, and one from Rosa—while the two men pull the soiled mattress off the bed frame and turn it on its side to fit through the door, holding the duvet in place to hide the stains.
The super stops just outside the door. “Good luck in here, Maggie.”
“Thank you . . . I’m sorry, I missed your name yesterday. I was a bit overwhelmed.”
He smiles. “It’s Grady.”
“Well, thank you, Grady. And the muscle.” They vanish down the hall with Celine’s deathbed.
————
One second I’m alone in the narrow, dimly lit hallway outside Celine’s apartment.
And then I lock the door and turn around to find a tiny, wrinkled woman standing no more than a foot away, smiling up at me.
She exclaims, “Hello, Maggie!” at the same time that I jump back and grab my chest.
“You’re confused. Wondering how I know you, right?” she asks with a wide grin, showing a full set of dentures. She must be in her eighties, her white hair framing her face in perfectly set curls.
“Kind of.” She made absolutely no noise coming out of her apartment. I’m guessing this encounter is no accident. She’s probably been hovering just inside her door, the hearing aid tucked into her left ear turned up to full, waiting for me to emerge.
“I’m Ruby Cummings.”
I frown. Ruby Cummings . . . I remember that name. “You sent flowers to the funeral home.” I went through each arrangement, mentally noting the people who took the time out of their day for such a kind gesture. I knew most of them. I didn’t recognize a Ruby Cummings, but I silently thanked her then.
Now I take her hand, the skin papery-thin but her grip surprisingly strong.
“I recognize you from the pictures on Celine’s shelf. You’re that rich one who does all those humanitarian things, right?” Cloudy green eyes survey me from behind glasses—my long caramel hair that is about six months late for a cut and pulled into a haphazard ponytail, my tanned skin in need of some moisturizer, my rough hands, the nails chewed and chipped. Perfectly acceptable while dragging building materials off wagons in a third world village. Basically, I’m the opposite of what you’d expect of someone with the size of bank account I have access to. “She was such a dear, sweet girl. Worked so hard, always off to the library or some garage sale when she wasn’t at the office. Would you like to come in for tea or coffee? I’ve made shortbread. Celine always enjoyed those.”
Clearly Ruby and Celine knew each other. There’s no reason for me to be wary of a little old lady, even if she was waiting for me to emerge.
She gestures behind her, toward her apartment, from which the evidence of her baking wafts. I can’t help but follow with my eyes, catching a glimpse of the inside. It makes Celine’s apartment look minimalist. Shelves upon shelves of books line every visible wall. Stacks of leather-bound spines sit in piles on the floor. Paperbacks rest on doily-covered tables. Hardcovers create obstacles everywhere, just waiting to teeter over and crush toes. I can see why she and Celine hit it off. It’s a librarian’s dream.
And a claustrophobic’s nightmare.
My chest constricts at the sight of it.
Fortunately, I have an honest excuse for avoiding what would amount to an hour of difficulty breathing and possible blackouts. “Thanks for the offer, but I have to meet with the detective on Celine’s case.” I called before my shower to confirm that he’s working today.
“Oh . . . ?” Curiosity flickers in her eyes. “About what?”
“Just want to clear up some questions I had.” I smile. A smile that I hope conveys that this isn’t to be gossiped about.
“Okay, dear. Well, you know where to find me. And if I can help with anything at all, don’t hesitate.”
“Thanks.” I begin down the hall, but then stop. “Hey, quick question.”
She nearly pounces. “Yes?”
“Did you ever see any of Celine’s friends visit her?”
Her wrinkled face scrunches with thought. “Well, there’s her coworker, the lovely Greek girl with those black ringlets. And then—”
I interrupt her. “What about men? Was she dating anyone?”
“No. Not that she mentioned to me. Odd, don’t you think? She was such a beauty. I tell you, if I could turn back time and look like her, I’d have a parade lined up right here.”
Dirty old bird. “Celine was a bit shy.”
“Yes, I gathered that. She never brought a man home, not that I noticed anyway. And I’m always home. I would have heard or seen something.” She drops her voice an octave. “I keep a watchful eye on the comings and goings around here.”
I’ll bet you do.
As tempted as I am to show her the picture of Celine’s mystery man, I don’t. It doesn’t seem like that’ll do anything but give her something to talk about with the neighbors. “See you around, Ruby.”
CHAPTER 4
Maggie
“How much longer?”
“Detective Childs is out on a case and will be here just as soon as he can,” the gray-haired clerk answers without looking up from her computer screen, her voice monotone, the line a standard dismissal.
“You said that two hours ago,” I mumble, earning a leveled glare that makes me focus on the white Styrofoam cup I’m gripping, the grounds sticking to the rim. I helped myself to the precinct’s coffeepot but haven’t managed to choke down the muddy water.
At least I’ve been able to catch up on emails while sitting here, only mildly distracted by criminals and police officers alike milling about.
“Ahhh . . . well, there you are,” the clerk calls out as footsteps approach from somewhere unseen to me. “This young lady has been waiting so patiently for your return.”
“Well, how ’bout that.” A man of average height and soft-bellied build appears and examines me through chocolate-brown eyes that match his skin. He shifts a grease-bottomed paper bag from his right to his left hand and then sticks his right hand out in greeting.
“Hi, I’m Maggie Sparkes. I’m here about Celine Gonzalez.”
“Celine Gonzalez . . .” His heavy, untamed brow crinkles in thought, as if he has to filter through the various cases in his head to remember hers.