A police officer emerged from the Watkinses’ apartment, leaving the door open behind him. At first, Lillian wondered when the Watkinses had gotten such a deep-red rug, almost scarlet, before realizing it was some kind of dried liquid, not a new runner.
Blood.
Another policeman stepped to the door to shut it, but not before Lillian caught sight of a woman’s bloody hand, the fingers gently, almost daintily, curled in.
She backed away, bracing herself on the banister for support, and dashed up the two flights to her landing. Inside the apartment, the soup roiling in her gut, she filled a glass with water and sat down at the tiny table in the kitchen. For all his bluster, Mr. Watkins hadn’t seemed like the sort to murder his wife. They’d argue, sure, but usually it was Mrs. Watkins who had the higher volume, drowning him out with a terrible squawk.
The last time Mr. Watkins had come to collect the rent, she’d invited him into the apartment in order to speak out of the earshot of the other tenants. He’d taken his time looking around, as if assessing how much he could raise the rent for a new tenant. Hers was one of the smaller apartments in the building, with only one bedroom, where she and her mother had slept. Two windows looked out on the dreary courtyard in the back, the black metal of the fire escape glinting in the late-summer sun. A galley kitchen served as the entryway, the table and chairs tucked in an alcove to one side, and the living area wasn’t much larger. Mr. Watkins eventually turned his attention to Lillian, offering up a sympathetic sigh. “Your mother was a lively woman, now, wasn’t she?”
A strange phrase, Lillian had thought. A lively woman.
Alive.
Not anymore. And she’d begun to cry.
Once the tears came, she didn’t try to hold them back, half crying for her mother and half hoping that by doing so she might buy some time and goodwill. He’d put a hand on her upper back, then let it move to the nape of her neck, squeezing gently. “I’m sorry to upset you,” he’d said. “But maybe there’s a way I can help.”
He’d asked her to meet him in his apartment in one month’s time, when Mrs. Watkins would be away visiting her sister. The implications were clear. Horrified, Lillian fretted about what to do.
Days before, she’d finally come out of her stupor after receiving the first of two letters from a Hollywood producer that she hoped might change everything and had finally galvanized her into action. She’d accepted the first modeling job that she could—one that her mother would never have approved of—and soon after secured the session with Mr. Rossi. The two jobs combined gave her a modicum of hope that it was only a matter of time before she’d be able to pay off her back rent. So she’d written a note to Mr. Watkins that was mildly flirtatious yet postponed the “rendezvous” until her work schedule cleared up, hoping that would appease him without getting her tossed onto the streets.
But now, if Mrs. Watkins was dead and Mr. Watkins the murderer, she might be able to live here for free until the entire mess was sorted out. Kitty would have admonished her for thinking only of herself when a woman had been killed, but she would have silently made the same assessment. A knock on the door interrupted Lillian’s thoughts. She rose to answer it.
“May I come in?” The police officer addressing her had ginger-colored hair and a matching mustache. A couple of curls slowly sprang back to life after he removed his hat and tucked it under his arm.
Once inside, the policeman cleared his throat. “The other tenants mentioned that you’re Angelica.” He glanced at Lillian’s chest and blushed. “Sorry, Miss Carter, I mean.”
A couple of years ago, a reporter had written an article about Lillian’s Grecian attributes, coveted by sculptors and artists for their classical nature and symmetry, in particular her well-formed breasts and the dimples on the small of her lower back. Renown had quickly followed, and the policeman’s reaction was typical of anyone who learned who she was, comparing the Angelica standing before them with the many creations around the city that were photographed for the article, from the barely clad Three Graces at the Hotel Astor (she portrayed all three, of course) to the golden-nippled, laurel-crowned Civic Fame at the apex of the Municipal Building.
She couldn’t help but bask in his attention a little. Especially after Mr. Rossi’s disappointed reaction earlier. “I am Angelica, yes,” she answered.
He was about to speak when an older policeman showed up in the doorway.
“I’ll take over.” The older man barely glanced her way. “Miss Angelica Carter?” He consulted a small notebook and made a check mark on it before she’d even answered.
“Yes.” She sat down at the kitchen table and placed her hands in her lap. During the course of her modeling career, having dealt with dozens of capricious artists, she’d learned to pick up small cues from the curtest of commands. This police officer wished to dominate both her and the younger man. If her mother were here (if only her mother were here), Kitty would have done all the talking, as Lillian placated the man with a single look. She knew exactly the one. Chin down, eyes up, projecting a demure naughtiness that always worked like a charm to quash the mercurial temperament of whatever artist she was posing for.
“Is there something wrong with your neck?” the older police officer asked.
It clearly wasn’t working this time.
“I have some questions for you, Miss Carter. How well did you know Mrs. Watkins?”
They were probably asking questions of all the tenants. She would be as helpful as possible. “As well as any other tenant, I suppose. She was my landlord’s wife. They fought, often. I’m so sorry it’s come to this.”
“To what?”
“That she’s, you know, dead.”
“We haven’t released that information yet. How do you know that?”
“I saw, as I walked up the stairs,” she stammered. “The door was open. There was a hand.”
He scribbled something in his notebook.
She cocked her head, trying to see what he’d written. “Also, sir, you spoke of her in the past tense, just now. You said, ‘How well did you know Mrs. Watkins?’ ”
“Well, aren’t you a smart one?” He didn’t mean it as a compliment. “How well do you know Mr. Watkins? You can assume by that question that he’s alive. Maybe you’ll be happy to hear that.”
“Happy?” Now she was confused.
“Answer my question.”
“He’s my landlord.”
“Nothing more than that?”
“No. What do you mean?”
“We found a note to Mr. Watkins from you in the pocket of Mrs. Watkins’s dressing gown. I assume you’re the only ‘Angelica’ in the building.”
Lillian’s stomach contracted, as if she’d been punched hard in the gut. She should have never written that note, should have put Mr. Watkins off in person. His wife must have found it and confronted him in a rage. Lillian tried to keep the panic out of her voice. “A note? My rent was due, so it was probably about that. Mr. Watkins was giving me time to raise it. You see, my mother died earlier this year, and ever since it’s been difficult.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” His face remained unchanged, cold. “So you’ve been living here alone since your mother died?”
“Yes.”
He glanced over at the door to the bedroom. “It appears that you and Mr. Watkins were arranging a rendezvous in the coming weeks. Did the two of you enjoy an intimate relationship?”
He was twisting the contents of the note around—that was not what she’d meant at all.
“Intimate?” In her horror, she almost laughed at the image of tubby Mr. Watkins in bed but caught herself. “No. Never.”
“Also, this was found in his desk.” The policeman reached into his pocket and pulled out a magazine clipping of some kind.