Survivor in Death (In Death 20)

“What did you see?”

“World going to hell in a handbasket.” She dipped her chin, unfolded one of her bony arms to slap a gnarled hand on the arm of the chair. “Sex and violence, sex and violence. Won’t be any pillar of salt this time out. Whole place, and everything in it, is going to burn. Get what you ask for. Reap what you sow.”

“Okay. Can you tell me if you heard or saw anything unusual on the night the Swishers were killed?”

“Got my ears fixed, got my eyes tuned. I see and hear fine.” She leaned forward, the tuned-up eyes avid. “I know who killed those people.”

“Who killed them?”

“The French.”

“How do you know that, Mrs. Grentz?”

“Because they’re French.” To emphasize her point, she slapped a hand on her leg. “Got their der-re-airs kicked the last time they made trouble, didn’t they? And believe me, they’ve been planning a payback ever since. If somebody’s murdered in their own bed, it was the French who did it. You can take that to the bank.”

Eve wasn’t sure the little sound Peabody made was a snicker or a sigh, but she ignored it. “I appreciate the information,” Eve began, and started to rise.

“Did you hear someone speaking French on the night of the murders?”

At Peabody’s question, Eve sent her a pitying look.

“You don’t hear them, girl. Quiet as snakes, that’s the French for you.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Grentz, you’ve been very helpful.” Eve got to her feet.

“Can’t trust people who eat snails.”

“No, ma’am. We’ll let ourselves out.”

Hildy stood just outside the doorway, grinning. “Buggy, but somehow fascinating, right? Mrs. Grentz?” She lifted her voice, moved into the doorway. “I’m going on down.”

“You get my bagels?”

“All put away. See you. Keep walking,” she instructed Eve, “and don’t look back. You never know what else is going to pop into her head.”

“You got a few minutes to talk with us, Hildy?”

“Sure.” Still carrying the market bag, Hildy led the way out, down the stairs, and around to her own entrance. “She’s actually my great-great-aunt—through marriage—but she likes to be called Mrs. Grentz. The mister’s been dead thirty years. Never made the acquaintance myself.”

Though below street level, the apartment was bright and cheerful with a lot of unframed posters tacked to the walls and a rainbow scatter of rugs on the floor. “I rent from her—well, her son pays the rent. I’m a kind of unofficial caretaker—her and the place. You saw upstairs? That’s nothing. She’s loaded. Wanna sit?”

“Thanks.”

“Seriously loaded, like millions, so I’m here to make sure the security’s always on, and that she doesn’t lie around helpless if she trips over some of that furniture and breaks her leg. She’s got this alarm deal on.” Hildy pulled a small receiver out of her pocket. “She falls, or if her vitals get wonky, this beeps. I do some of the marketing for her, listen to her crab sometimes. It’s a pretty good deal for the digs. And she’s okay, mostly, sort of funny.”

“How long have you had the place?”

“Six months, almost seven now. I’m a writer—well, working on that—so this is a good setup for me. You guys want something to drink or anything?”

“No, but thanks. You knew the Swishers?”

“Sort of, the way you do when you see the same people all the time. I knew the parents to nod to, like that. We weren’t really on the same wave.”

“Meaning?”

“They were totally linear, you know. Put the con in conservative. Nice. Really nice. If they’d see me out, they’d always ask about Mrs. Grentz, and if I was doing okay. Not everybody bothers with that. I knew the kids a little more.”

She held up a hand, shut her eyes a minute. “I’m trying to put it in its place, to get to ‘they’re where their destiny took them to,’ that place. But Jesus!” Her eyes opened again, swam a moment. “They were just kids. And Coyle? I think he had a little crush on me. It was really sweet.”