Mrs. Herzog’s drink remained untouched on the low table before her. She sat on a sofa of pale blue brocade, inclined her head graciously, and repeated how shocked they had been to learn of Dr. Shambley’s untimely death. How utterly shocked, in feet.
Jim Lowry rather doubted that. Mrs. Herzog seemed too detached to have ever been shocked by anything, but he nodded. “We understand that he hadn’t been there very long?”
“He was appointed at our semiannual meeting in September,” said Mrs. Herzog. “Jacob Munson put his name forward. I wasn’t quite sure he was right for the Breul House-he was on sabbatical from the New York Center for the Fine Arts, you see-but Jacob assured us his academic credentials were impeccable and we did lack a scholar on the board. ” She watched her husband refill his martini glass from a silver shaker on the antique Chinese sideboard. “I suppose we shall have to find ourselves another scholar.”
“This time from the Institute of Fine Arts,” her husband murmured as he sat down again in a pale blue chair by the sideboard.
“Yes.” She lifted her own drink from the gleaming teak table and held the long-stemmed crystal cocktail glass with skeletal fingers while she stared at the small white object awash in clear liquid.
A Gibson, Elaine decided. Martinis had olives, Gibsons had pearl onions.
Of course.
Onions also had fewer calories than olives. Not that it actually mattered.
Without touching the glass to her lips, Mrs. Herzog returned it to the table.
“Were you aware of any animosity between Dr. Shambley and anyone else at the Breul House?” asked Jim Lowry.
“We hardly knew him, Detective Lowry. Marie Reinicke arranged a luncheon at the house for everyone to meet him, early last month. He was quite witty that day. A bit too witty for my taste, but then perhaps I-”
She hesitated as her husband stood and casually poured himself another drink, then looked at her inquiringly. “Another for you, my dear?”
“No, thank you,” she replied. “I still seem to have some.”
“We were told that he was witty at Mr. Reinicke’s expense last night,” said Elaine Albee.
“Precisely my point. Winston was devastated when he had to part with his Van Gogh drawing, and for that odious little man to make light of it-!”
Her voice lost its detachment and Mr. Herzog completed the thought for her in a dignified tone. “He was no gentleman.”
“Was Mr. Reinicke angry last night?” asked Lowry.
“Winston Reinicke is a gentleman,” said Mrs. Herzog. “If you’re really asking if he remained behind last night and exacted revenge for Dr. Shambley’s insults, he did not. The four of us left Erich Breul House together shortly after eight and shared a car uptown. We dropped the Reinickes at their own door well before eight-thirty.”
“Are you quite sure I can’t fix someone a drink?” Mr. Herzog asked courteously.
When they regained the street some twenty-seven floors below, Elaine Albee and Jim Lowry unconsciously paused to draw in several deep breaths of frigid night air.
Lowry laughed when he realized what they were doing. “That’s how it must feel in a submarine or a spaceship,” he said. “Every crack hermetically sealed and all the air recycled over and over until there’s no oxygen left in it.”
Rush hour traffic was still building and streams of headlights could be seen all the way down Park Avenue. The Reinickes lived in a building that fronted the park and as she and Jim walked over to Fifth, Elaine said, “Before we do the Hymans, let’s stop in at F.A.O. Schwartz if we finish up with the Reinickes in time. I need to see some kids talking to Santa soon or I’m going to lose all my Christmas spirit.”
The Reinicke apartment rose high above Central Park. The living room was furnished with an eclectic mix of beautiful antiques, modern couches, small collectibles and a large, bushy Scotch pine squashed into a corner window; its colored lights overlay the lights of the park and were reflected back into the room. Despite the clutter, the place seemed warm and cozy after the airless precision of the Herzog’s’ home.
Mrs. Reinicke was a vivacious blonde of late middle-age and seemed totally unselfconscious about her limp.
“Polio,” she said cheerfully when she noticed Jim Lowry’s surreptitious glance at her rolling gait. “Jonas Salk was eight years too late with his vaccine for me. Even so, I was lucky. My baby sister died.”
She tilted her blond head to them. “So much anxiety now with AIDS but we’ve forgotten the sheer terror of the polio epidemics, haven’t we? I do hope there’s a heaven. Dr. Salk and his colleagues so deserve one.”
Winston Reinicke, bluff and hearty, patted her hand tenderly. “So they do, my love, so they do.”
“Forgive my asking,” said Elaine, “but do you ever use a cane?”
“Oh, no. Not for me. I tried once but such a nuisance you wouldn’t believe! Getting in and out of cabs, and they always slide off your chair and trip up the waiters. I have an Irish shepherd’s crook for tramping around our country place, but here in the city I simply can’t be bothered. Winston, do fix these two young people something to drink.”
She waved aside their demurrals. “It doesn’t have to be alcoholic. We have juice, Perrier, or-I know! In honor of the season, what about some eggnog without the nog or mulled apple cider?”
The detectives had not wanted to accept drinks from the Herzog’s, but somehow it seemed all right from the Reinickes and soon they were sipping hot cider, warmed inside and out by the spicy bouquet of cloves and cinnamon.
“I grew up on an apple farm in Pennsylvania,” Lowry said contentedly, “and this smells like Christmas at home.”
Both Reinickes looked as if they’d much rather discuss apple farms or Christmas customs or even Lowry’s mother’s recipe for mulled cider than Roger Shambley; but it was clear that someone had already given them all the news about the art historian’s death. Once the initial awkwardness wore off, they freely answered questions about the previous evening as if the detectives were there solely to gather background material. Neither seemed to realize that Mr. Reinicke might be a suspect.
“It was an informal sort of get-together,” explained Marie Reinicke. “Four or five of the trustees and their spouses, some art people, people from the Breul House. Organized by Lady Francesca Leeds with, I suppose, Mr. Thorvaldsen picking up the tab?” She looked doubtfully at her husband.
“Quite right, quite right,” agreed Mr. Reinicke. “All their idea, and a tax write-off to boot, so it’s only right, eh? Our funds are too low for impromptu parties, I’m afraid. And don’t forget Oscar Nauman.”
“Of course, ‘ Mrs. Reinicke nodded briskly. ”He was the whole point of the party. You’ve been told that though?”
“He’s a painter-going to exhibit some of his pictures there, isn’t he?” Lowry asked hesitantly. “And that’s supposed to help bring in more money?”
“And publicity.” Mrs. Reinicke cocked her blond head at Lowry’s uncertainty and charitably elucidated, “Yes, you might say Oscar Nauman’s a painter. Like Donald Trump’s a carpenter or Pavarotti sings a little. Nauman’s never had a summary exhibition and to have his first at the Erich Breul House-! There’ll be lines all around Sussex Square.”
Jim and Elaine exchanged glances. Neither had realized that Lieutenant Harald was involved with someone of that stature.
“And the Kohn woman, Jacob Munson’s colleague at the gallery,” said Mr. Reinicke, who was still reconstructing last night’s party, “and that quiet young woman with those extraordinary gray eyes. She came with Nauman. Did you meet her, Marie? A Miss Harald. Tall woman. Didn’t say much, but had a nice smile.”