11th Hour (Women's Murder Club 11)

“How do you know that?”

“Sixth. Get it? Another six. And this particular symphony — I think it’s about gardens. Don’t you hate it when I’m right?” she said, grinning.

I said, “Shhh. Keep your eyes open.”

We rounded the next flight, and the next, the music getting louder as we climbed. We came to the sixth-floor landing and faced the three doors on that level.

One was marked F, for front, I assumed. One was marked WASHROOM, and the third door had a note taped under the letter R, for rear.

Conklin shone his light on the door and I moved in so that I could read the handwritten notice: Genius at Work. Do Not Disturb.

Chapter 78

I’M NOT SUPERSTITIOUS, but seriously, there were too many sixes in this deal. Number 6 Ellsworth, Beethoven’s Sixth, and now the trail of sixes that ended on the sixth floor.

Six-six-six was an unlucky number, right? So what kind of nightmare was this “genius at work”?

I put Cindy behind me as Conklin knocked on the door and said, “Open up. This is the police.”

The music was turned off, then heavy footsteps came toward the threshold. A dark eye stared through the peephole.

A chain rattled and the doorknob turned, and then, standing in the doorway, actually filling it, was a very tall white woman, maybe six two, apparently unarmed. She was wearing a long and well-worn black velvet skirt and a knit gray top with batwing sleeves. Her gray-blond hair was twisted up in a topknot. She smiled broadly.

“Oh, hello! I know who you are. I’m Connie Kerr. Come in.”

I think maybe my mouth actually dropped open. I knew her. I didn’t know her personally, but about twenty years ago, Constance Kerr had been a kind of celebrity on the pro tennis circuit. She’d been a lanky girl with a powerful serve and a very long stride.

Conklin said his name and mine, introduced Cindy Thomas without identifying her role in this escapade, and all three of us stepped into Constance Kerr’s home.

It was a garret, a hidey-hole under the eaves of this Victorian house. The room had odd angles, and a closet and a small kitchen had been sectioned out of the ten-by-twelve-foot room. A fold-out bed was put up against the center of the longest wall, and there was a desk under the one window. A laptop computer was open on the desk and a three-foot-high stack of yellow manuscript boxes stood on the floor.

A heavy gray blanket was affixed to the top of the window frame and hung down over the glass, making a dense, light-blocking curtain.

I moved the blanket aside.

I could see the trophy garden and the back of the Ellsworth mansion, including the door that led from the kitchen and out to the brick patio where six days ago I’d seen a pair of skulls displayed like a monstrous art project.

The former tennis star was speaking to Conklin. “I watched you take charge of the crime scene, of course. I enjoyed that very much. I know you’re trying to help Harry.”

There was standing room only in Connie Kerr’s little flat, but she had the air of a Nob Hill dowager holding a tea party.

“May I get you refreshments?” she said.

Chapter 79

WE TURNED DOWN the offer of refreshments and arrayed ourselves around the small room.

I leaned against the kitchenette counter, Cindy grabbed the only chair, and Conklin took up a position against the door. Connie Kerr stood like a flagpole at the center of the room.

“How can I help you?” she said.

“Harry Chandler,” I said. “How do you know him?”

“Oh, well. Harry. I was his girlfriend a long time ago. He was a star and I was blinded by his light. It was just a fling,” she said, laughing, “but I really had fun and I have no regrets.”

“When did you see him last?”

“Don’t hold me to the exact day, but I’m sure I haven’t seen him in twenty years or more.”