She pulled a plastic-wrapped cylinder from one of the bins. “This is it. I’m not supposed to open it though unless you’re going to buy it.”
There was a small reproduction of the artwork on the outer wrap. To the detectives’ untutored eyes, it looked like a picture of two faceless mannequins constructed of Dixie cups and paper chains. They were drawn in heavy black lines. One figure was red, the other bright blue.
“He bought two of ’em, just alike?” asked Peters.
“Uh-huh. He got kinda pissed when we didn’t have two différent examples from that period. It was like maybe he was doing his Christmas shopping or something. But then he kinda laughed and said it didn’t matter; that he’d just hang one of them upside down. Weird, right?”
Her loose shirt fell forward as she bent to return the poster to its proper slot, but Bernie Peters noted with only half his attention that she wasn’t wearing a bra. The other half recalled the search he’d helped conduct yesterday.
“I think I saw those posters in the Breul House basement,” he told Matt Eberstadt.
Seated across the library table from the two female detectives, Mrs. Beardsley had grown weary of the way one had to say the same thing three different ways before the police moved on to a different question. Beyond the possibility of a trunk in the attic, she had no idea where Sophie Breul’s extra glove case had spent the last seventy years, nor what that satin case had held, and she had told them so. At length.
This was rapidly becoming, she decided, a delicate question of etiquette.
On the one hand, police officers were, by their very calling, of a lower socioeconomic order. One must, of course, treat everyone-even one’s inferiors-graciously although a certain distance was allowed.
On the other hand, Miss Harald-Lieutenant Harald, Mrs. Beardsley reminded herself sharply-had been met on a social level and she was, after all, a personal friend of the famous Oscar Nauman.
So one could hardly snub her with impunity. Not even when she made gross insinuations.
“Now really, Lieutenant Harald!” She stiffened in one of the leather library chairs. “I don’t know with whom you’ve been gossiping, nor do I wish to be told. Under the circumstances, I suppose everyone becomes suspect. Nevertheless, it’s simply ridiculous to suppose that one-that I-would resort to violence.”
“But Dr. Shambley did fill a vacancy on the board of trustees which you had hoped for, didn’t he?” asked the lieutenant.
“I let it be known that my name could be considered,” Mrs. Beardsley admitted. “One is seldom chosen immediately. It is quite usual to be passed over the first time or two.”
“Will you ask to be considered now that the seat is vacant again?”
“Certainly,” said Mrs. Beardsley firmly. “Why not? Everyone knows my devotion to the Erich Breul House is unchanged.”
“Yes,” agreed the police officer. “We’ve heard that you’re often the first to arrive in the mornings and the last to leave at night.”
Her tone sounded more conciliatory and Mrs. Beardsley unbent slightly. “One can’t claim too much credit for that when it’s merely a matter of walking across the square.”
“And you do have a key,” mused Lieutenant Harald.
Mrs. Beardsley looked at her sharply. Such a drab-looking person today in that dark gray suit and no makeup. On Wednesday night she’d been rather striking in an odd way. Or was that only because one linked her with Oscar Nauman?
“Tell us again, please, what you did after the others left?” she was saying.
Mrs. Beardsley sighed and went through it all again: how all the guests had gone by eight-thirty, how she’d sent Dr. Peake on his way, how she’d overseen the caterers’ departure. She did not try to describe how she loved being alone in this house, how she could almost imagine herself a member of the Breul family, or how alive they often seemed to her. Never mind if Pascal were in the basement or Dr. Shambley in the attic. As long as one didn’t see or hear either man, one’s imagination was free to see and hear the Breuls.
“No,” she said again. “I didn’t go down to the basement because I thought Pascal was still out; and Dr. Shambley had made it quite clear more than once that he did not wish to be disturbed when he was working. I ascertained that all the candles were snuffed, then I unplugged the Christmas tree and went home without seeing either of them.”
Mrs. Beardsley braced herself for more questions on that point. Instead, the Harald woman sat back in her chair with a trousered knee propped against the edge of the gleaming table top and asked, “Why did Pascal Grant dislike Dr. Shambley? Some of the other docents have told us that he avoided the man whenever he could.”
“Dr. Shambley made him feel uncomfortable,” she hedged.
“How?”
Protective maternalism surged in Mrs. Beardsley’s breast. “Pascal Grant couldn’t hurt a fly,” she told them. “Surely you see what a sweet gentle boy he is.”
“That’s why we don’t understand what he had against Dr. Shambley,” said the younger detective, smiling at her across the table.
Mrs. Beardsley approved of the blonde’s tailored femininity, her coral lipstick and modest eye shadow, her Cuban-heeled boots and brown tweed jacket worn over beige-and-peach plaid slacks. So much easier to talk to, she decided. And really, weren’t policewomen rather like nurses? One could discuss anything with nurses.
“It was painful for Pascal to speak of it,” she said, bravely ignoring her own embarrassment, “but it seems there was a man at the sheltered workshop where Pascal trained when he was twelve or thirteen.” Her voice lowered. “A sexual deviant, if you please! And he took advantage of his position to force himself on some of the boys.”
“And Shambley-?” asked Detective Albee.
“Oh, no!” exclaimed Mrs. Beardsley. “When I realized how uneasy Pascal was, I cross-questioned him quite thoroughly, for I would have denounced Dr. Shambley had that been the case. No, no, I’m quite certain he did not approach the boy; but evidently, there was some physical resemblance between Dr. Shambley and the man who had once abused him. Something about their eyes, I believe. Poor Pascal. His reactions are emotional rather than reasoned. But you must surely see from this that his instinct is to retreat, not attack. He simply avoided the man whenever he could.”
The other two women were silent for a moment, then, absently tapping her pen against her knee, Lieutenant Harald said, “Getting back to your own movements, Mrs. Beardsley: you saw no one after the caterers left?”
“Not even,” added the other officer, “Mr. Thorvaldsen when you crossed the square?”
“I’m sorry, Detective Albee, but when it’s that cold, one doesn’t linger outside to pass the time of night with casual pedestrians whom one may or may not know. I simply didn’t notice.”
“So when you say that you went home shortly after nine and didn’t return,” said Lieutenant Harald, “there’s no one who can confirm your statement?”
Mrs. Beardsley inclined her head. “No one.”
Once more they asked her about seeing Thorvaldsen leave the house at midnight and then they thanked her for her cooperation.
One with a completely clear conscience did not register relief at having done one’s civic duty, Mrs. Beardsley reminded herself, and walked with quiet dignity from the library.
Sigrid glanced at Albee. “Well?”
“Oh yes,” said Elaine. “I could see her deciding that he was a bug that needed to be squashed and just doing it. But only if he was hurting her precious house. And he wasn’t.”
“That we’re aware of,” Sigrid told her. “We still don’t know where he found that glove case or what he took from it.”