of having heard McKinnon’s name and she certainly hadn’t recognized him when she first began working for him almost two years ago.
“A cop doesn’t walk away from his best friend’s wife and child the week that friend gets killed. Why did McKinnon?”
“I told him to.” Anne had gone back to fiddling with the honey spoon. She scooped a viscous heap from the jar, then held the spoon above the rim so that the thick golden honey flowed back down into the jar.
“Because Dad was killed and he wasn’t?”
“Something like that. It was all mixed up in my mind, honey. I honestly don’t blame him any more.”
“Any more?”
“That Leif died and he didn’t,” she said with an impatient twitch of her shoulder.
Last autumn Mick Cluett had tried to talk about her dad and she’d cut him off, thought Sigrid. Just as she’d cut him off at that farewell get-together last month. What would he have said?
“I pulled Dad’s file last fall,” she told Anne. “Did you know Mick Cluett was their backup?”
“I’m surprised you had to read it. Didn’t Mickey tell you all about it himself?” Anne asked bitterly, as the last golden drops fell from the spoon. “He showed up at our apartment that evening still wearing the uniform drenched with your father’s blood, roaring drunk, and telling anyone who’d listen how he’d cradled Leif’s head in his arms as he died.”
“Is that why Captain McKinnon called you today?”
“Probably. I didn’t ask. Let it go, Siga. I don’t want to talk about the past anymore.” She stuck the spoon back in the honey jar and stood briskly. “Let’s see what Mama sent us this year, okay?”
Sigrid knew it would be useless to push for more information tonight. Anne seldom let herself be pinned down very long and from here on would find a dozen ways to keep changing the subject. But the thought of McKinnon calling to tell Anne about Cluett’s death was bewildering; and despite Anne’s determined cheerfulness, Sigrid wasn’t in the mood for one of Grandmother Lattimore’s annual attempts to turn her into a candidate for Hymen’s altar.
“What is it this year?” she said sourly, as Anne opened a large white envelope stuck with commemorative North Carolina stamps and addressed to both of them in Jane Lattimore’s flowing Spencerian script. “A check for miniskirts and four-inch heels?”
Whenever Mrs. Lattimore sent money, she usually included clothing ads from The New York Times or Vogue and she expected to see the results on her next visit to the city. A dutiful granddaughter, Sigrid always spent the money as ordered—half her closet space was devoted to clothes as frivolous as peacock feathers—but she’d seldom worn them before Oscar Nauman entered her life and even now wasn’t completely comfortable wearing them with him.
Anne slit open the envelope and extracted two smaller ones. A mischievous gurgle of laughter escaped her as she scanned the contents. “You’re not going to like this,” she grinned.
“What?” Sigrid asked apprehensively.
“She’s sent us matching gift certificates. For Imagine You!”
“Imagine You!?” She didn’t like the sound of the name. “What’s that? A beauty salon? Dress shop?”
“A very expensive Fifth Avenue fashion consultant. We’re going to have our colors done.”
“Oh God!” Sigrid groaned.
CHAPTER 7
By 9:30 P.M. on that Wednesday night, Lotty Fischer had cleared most of the work left in her In-basket. When she returned from her supper break, she picked up the names Wally Abronski had left for her and logged in again. This was part of the job’s fun. From her computer terminal, she could access dozens of data banks around the country. One of the first things she’d done four years ago was locate everything available on all her favorite stars. She knew where John Travolta lived, what kind of car Tom Cruise drove in real life, how many speeding tickets the Mets had amassed between them, and
“A cop doesn’t walk away from his best friend’s wife and child the week that friend gets killed. Why did McKinnon?”
“I told him to.” Anne had gone back to fiddling with the honey spoon. She scooped a viscous heap from the jar, then held the spoon above the rim so that the thick golden honey flowed back down into the jar.
“Because Dad was killed and he wasn’t?”
“Something like that. It was all mixed up in my mind, honey. I honestly don’t blame him any more.”
“Any more?”
“That Leif died and he didn’t,” she said with an impatient twitch of her shoulder.
Last autumn Mick Cluett had tried to talk about her dad and she’d cut him off, thought Sigrid. Just as she’d cut him off at that farewell get-together last month. What would he have said?
“I pulled Dad’s file last fall,” she told Anne. “Did you know Mick Cluett was their backup?”
“I’m surprised you had to read it. Didn’t Mickey tell you all about it himself?” Anne asked bitterly, as the last golden drops fell from the spoon. “He showed up at our apartment that evening still wearing the uniform drenched with your father’s blood, roaring drunk, and telling anyone who’d listen how he’d cradled Leif’s head in his arms as he died.”
“Is that why Captain McKinnon called you today?”
“Probably. I didn’t ask. Let it go, Siga. I don’t want to talk about the past anymore.” She stuck the spoon back in the honey jar and stood briskly. “Let’s see what Mama sent us this year, okay?”
Sigrid knew it would be useless to push for more information tonight. Anne seldom let herself be pinned down very long and from here on would find a dozen ways to keep changing the subject. But the thought of McKinnon calling to tell Anne about Cluett’s death was bewildering; and despite Anne’s determined cheerfulness, Sigrid wasn’t in the mood for one of Grandmother Lattimore’s annual attempts to turn her into a candidate for Hymen’s altar.
“What is it this year?” she said sourly, as Anne opened a large white envelope stuck with commemorative North Carolina stamps and addressed to both of them in Jane Lattimore’s flowing Spencerian script. “A check for miniskirts and four-inch heels?”
Whenever Mrs. Lattimore sent money, she usually included clothing ads from The New York Times or Vogue and she expected to see the results on her next visit to the city. A dutiful granddaughter, Sigrid always spent the money as ordered—half her closet space was devoted to clothes as frivolous as peacock feathers—but she’d seldom worn them before Oscar Nauman entered her life and even now wasn’t completely comfortable wearing them with him.
Anne slit open the envelope and extracted two smaller ones. A mischievous gurgle of laughter escaped her as she scanned the contents. “You’re not going to like this,” she grinned.
“What?” Sigrid asked apprehensively.
“She’s sent us matching gift certificates. For Imagine You!”
“Imagine You!?” She didn’t like the sound of the name. “What’s that? A beauty salon? Dress shop?”
“A very expensive Fifth Avenue fashion consultant. We’re going to have our colors done.”
“Oh God!” Sigrid groaned.
CHAPTER 7
By 9:30 P.M. on that Wednesday night, Lotty Fischer had cleared most of the work left in her In-basket. When she returned from her supper break, she picked up the names Wally Abronski had left for her and logged in again. This was part of the job’s fun. From her computer terminal, she could access dozens of data banks around the country. One of the first things she’d done four years ago was locate everything available on all her favorite stars. She knew where John Travolta lived, what kind of car Tom Cruise drove in real life, how many speeding tickets the Mets had amassed between them, and
Similar Books
