“All right. You tell the wife.”
“What? Wait!”
“You convince her you need me on this. Make it life and death.”
“No! Feeney, don’t—”
“Sheila!” He honked the name out, and in the lingering chill of March, Eve’s hands went damp with sweat.
What people did for friendship, Eve thought, as she paid off the cab. Now she was responsible, according to Mrs. Feeney, if the work set back his recovery. Should’ve left him hacking up a lung at his desk in the first place, she told herself as she buzzed Greta Horowitz’s apartment from street level.
She angled toward the view screen.
“Lieutenant Dallas?”
“Yes. Can I come up?”
“I’ll open the locks.”
The doors beeped clear, opened smoothly. Inside, the entryway was small, and absolutely pristine. Eve imagined Greta would tolerate no less. The elevator hummed cooperatively to the fourth floor where Greta stood in the doorway of her unit.
“Has something happened?”
“Just some follow-up questions.”
“Oh. I was hoping you’d found who killed Mr. Anders. Please come in.”
The apartment was as unpretentious and efficient as its occupant. Sturdy furniture, no frills, a scent of…clean, was the only way Eve could describe it.
“Can I get you something hot to drink?”
“No, thanks. If we could sit down for a few minutes.”
“Please.” Greta sat, planted her shoes on the floor and her knees together. Smoothed down the skirt of her dignified black suit.
“You’re attending the memorial,” Eve began.
“Yes. It’s a very sad day. After, I’ll go to Mrs. Plowder’s, to help with the bereavement supper. Tomorrow…” She let out a little sigh. “Tomorrow, I am back to work. I will prepare the house so Mrs. Anders can return home.”
“Prepare it?”
“It must be freshened, of course, and some marketing must be done. The bed linens…you understand.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll supervise having Mr. Anders’s clothes packed.”
Don’t waste time, do you, Ava? “Packed?”
“Mrs. Anders feels it will distress her to see them. She prefers they be removed before her return, and donated, of course, to charity.”
“Of course. Mrs. Horowitz, how long did it take you to put away, give away, your husband’s clothes?”
“I still have his dress uniform.” She glanced over, and following, Eve saw the framed photo of the soldier Greta had loved. “People grieve in their own way.”
“Mrs. Horowitz, you strike me as the sort of woman who not only knows her job, but does it very well. Who not only meets her employers’ needs, but would anticipate them. To anticipate, you’d have to understand them.”
“I take pride in my work. I will be glad to get back to it. I dislike being idle.”