She crossed the street, lightly dodging a chauffeured limousine. There was a spray of white carnations tied with black satin ribbons on the gleaming oak door, a homely old-fashioned symbol that Sigrid hadn't expected of Riley Quinn's wife.
The woman who answered the doorbell was short and stout with iron gray hair, which ballooned improbably around a plain face made even plainer by tear-blotched skin and swollen red eyes. Hers was the first sign of real grief for Quinn's death that Sigrid had seen.
The woman seemed to assume that Sigrid had called to offer condolences. "I'm Millie Minton," she said, taking Sigrid's hand in hers and pressing it sadly as she drew Sigrid across the threshhold,
"Riley's sister. It's so good of you to come."
As tactfully as possible Sigrid retrieved her hand and identified herself.
"Police!" Mrs. Minton's eyes widened, then flooded with fresh tears. "Oh, poor Riley! How could anyone have killed him? It's just dreadful. What a horrible way to die!"
"I'm sorry to intrude," Sigrid said uncomfortably, "but if I might speak to Mrs. Quinn?"
"Yes, of course, Lieutenant." She blew her nose again with a sodden handkerchief and smoothed her black dress down over well-corseted hips as she turned.
Beyond the grieving woman the living room was crowded with earlier callers who had lapsed into discreet conversation. It needed only the tinkle of ice against glass to be mistaken for a well-bred cocktail gathering, though none of last night's bottles and glasses were visible this afternoon. Yet there was soft laughter from one group, which quickly hushed when Mrs. Minton led Sigrid past the open archway. Sigrid found herself scanning the gathering for a tall white-haired figure and was annoyed with herself when she realized what she was doing.
Across the room Jake Saxer flushed and turned away as the full force of her scowl fell on him. Sigrid had been unaware of him until his movement of withdrawal, and her eyes narrowed. Why was he afraid to meet her gaze, she wondered, unconscious of her formidable frown.
Mrs. Minton opened the door to Quinn's study at the end of the wide entrance hall. "I'll tell Doris you're here," she said.
Left alone, Sigrid circled the leather-bound study with interest. Riley Quinn's domain was more or less what she would have expected-pretentiously academic, almost a stage set, yet showing signs of serious work in that rear wall of counters and files. Some partially open file drawers struck a jarring note in the otherwise precisely ordered room. Had Quinn removed a folder hurriedly on his way to Vanderlyn yesterday morning? And what had he used that crowbar for? Surely it was an odd tool to find standing in the corner of a scholar's study? Visions of monumentally stuck drawers were put aside for the time being, however, as the door opened and Doris Quinn entered.
She was followed by her uncle, courtly and dapper in a gray silk suit and dark red tie. J. Duncan Sylvester was completely bald and had small pointed ears and thick white eyebrows, which he used for emphasis. He looked like an intelligent, wizened elf, and he raised one tufted eyebrow in surprise now. Riley's sister had merely said that a police officer wished to see Doris; she hadn't specified that the lieutenant was female. The publisher of The Loaded Brush was a thoroughgoing chauvinist where his niece was concerned, and he'd accompanied her to keep some hard-nosed male officer from bullying her. Fleetingly he wondered if he might not be superfluous in this interview.
A second look at Lieutenant Harald's cool gray eyes made him decide he'd better stay after all. Sylvester doted on his niece, but he had no illusions about her mental stature, and this severe-faced young woman looked quite capable of making mincemeat of Doris. He introduced himself, clearly intending to guide the interview.
Sigrid responded politely, but her fullest attention was on Quinn's widow.
If Doris Quinn had shed any tears that morning, no traces of them were visible now. Her leaf green eyes were clear, her skin creamy perfection. She wore an oatmeal-colored dress whose simple cut enhanced her own generous lines and made Sigrid feel stick shaped and ill clothed. She knew, too, that Doris Quinn had sensed her discomfort, for the blonde had visibly relaxed as if she held a secret weapon that made her invulnerable.
Oh, no, you don't, thought Sigrid. She was stung into murmuring coldly, "I'm glad to see you're feeling better this morning, Mrs. Quinn."
Unfazed, Doris smiled sweetly. Long ago she had learned that the best defense is not defense at all-polite apologies and no explanations. "I'm sorry I couldn't speak with you last night, Lieutenant Harald. So inconvenient for you, having to come back twice."
"Not at all," Sigrid said, ashamed of her flash of cattiness now that she had herself back under control.
Unaware of the undercurrents, Sylvester knitted his thick white eyebrows at her. "How close are you to discovering who did this terrible thing, Lieutenant?"
"That's difficult to say, sir. I was hoping Mrs. Quinn might be able to help us."
"Me? How?"
"Were you aware of any conflicts your husband might have been having lately? Did he mention anyone who might have hated him enough to want him dead?"
"No, of course not," said Doris, but her eyes sought her uncle's counsel.
"Marc Humphries was furious about Riley's review last month," Sylvester said after brief concentration, "but I know for a fact that he's been in Japan since last week. What about Karoly's nephew?"
"That funny little Hungarian?" asked Doris. "Riley fussed about him being at the college, but they weren't actually fighting still. Not lately."
Sigrid heard the dubious tone in her voice. "There was someone more recent, wasn't there?"
"We-ell… Oh, but I'm sure it didn't mean anything."
Sigrid persisted until Doris finally said, "He and Jake Saxer had a fight the night before last." She described what she'd overheard between the two men, and Sigrid had the impression that she was repeating words she'd spoken before-though not to her uncle. Sylvester's keen blue eyes darted attentively back and forth between the two women.
"Arguments are almost inevitable between collaborators," he interposed smoothly, "especially when a book is taking its final shape, and one has to be ruthless about what's included and what must-by the exigencies of space-be omitted. Each tends to play devil's advocate for every example the other wishes to exclude."
Sigrid let that pass undebated. "And you can think of no one else, Mrs. Quinn? Did he ever mention conflicts with students or colleagues?"
Doris Quinn shook her elegant blonde head emphatically, but Sigrid still sensed a holding back. Who was she protecting? Leyden? She started to frame another question, but they were interrupted by Millie Minton, who seemed flustered as she opened the door.
"There's a person here who-"
The person in question was stocky and pugnacious, dark of hair and broad of face, and he elbowed past Mrs. Minton, who still stood in the doorway, nodded to her genially and closed the door, leaving her outside. "Mrs. Quinn?" he asked, looking from Sigrid to Doris.
Doris nodded, and the young man strode across the study's Persian rug to hand her an official-looking document.
"What's that?" cried Sylvester.
"A restraining order barring the sale and/or disposal of any artworks of any kind allegedly belonging to the estate of the late Riley Quinn," the stranger said cheerfully. His beautifully cut dark green suit and crisp striped tie contrasted with his cocky street-fighter body, and Sigrid caught a hint of smugness in his tone.
"Allegedly?" she queried.
The man had merry black eyes that twinkled when they met her gray ones, as if the two of them shared a very rich joke. Sigrid began to suspect they might, and she moved aside as J. Duncan Sylvester beetled his tufted brows angrily and demanded to know who he was, and what he meant be barging into a house of bereavement like this?