A decrepit woman was trekking across the rug with a walker.
A young man looked bored behind a potted plant on the front desk and paid me no mind as I headed to the elevator. The doors eventually opened and took forever to close, as is common in places where people need plenty of time to ambulate. Riding up three floors alone, I stared abstractedly at the bulletins taped to the paneled interior, reminders of field trips to area museums and plantations, of bridge clubs, arts and crafts, and a deadline for knitted items needed by the Jewish Community Center. Many of the announcements were outdated. Retirement homes, with their cemetery names like Sunnyland or Sheltering Pines or Chamberlayne Gardens, always made me feel slightly queasy. I didn’t know what I would do when my mother could no longer live alone.
Last time I called her she was talking about getting a hip replacement.
Mrs. McTigue’s apartment was halfway down on the left, and my knock was promptly answered by a wizened woman with scanty hair tightly curled and yellowed like old paper. Her face was dabbed with rouge, and she was bundled in an oversize white cardigan sweater. I smelled floral-scented toilet water and the aroma of baking cheese.
“I’m Kay Scarpetta,” I said.
“Oh, it’s so nice of you to come,” she said, lightly patting my offered hand. “Will you have tea or something a little stronger? Whatever you like, I have it. I’m drinking port.”
All this as she led me into the small living room and showed me to a wing chair. Switching off the television, she turned on another lamp. The living room was as overwhelming as the set of the opera Aida. On every available space of the faded Persian rug were heavy pieces of mahogany furniture: chairs, drum tables, a curio table, crowded bookcases, corner cupboards jammed with bone china and stemware. Closely spaced on the walls were dark paintings, bell pulls, and several brass rubbings.
She returned with a small silver tray bearing a Water-ford decanter of port, two matching pieces of stemware, and a small plate arranged with homemade cheese biscuits. Filling our glasses, she offered me the plate and lacy linen napkins that looked old and freshly ironed. It was a ritual that took quite a long time. Then she seated herself on a worn end of a sofa where I suspected she sat most hours of the day while she was reading or watching television. She was pleased to have
company even if the reason for it was somewhat less than sociable. I wondered who, if anyone, ever came to see her.
“As I mentioned earlier, I’m the medical examiner working Beryl Madison’s case,” I said. “At this point there is very little those of us investigating her death know about her or the people who might have known her.”
Mrs. McTigue sipped her port, her face blank. I was so accustomed to going straight to the point with the police and attorneys I sometimes forgot the rest of the world needs lubrication. The biscuit was buttery and really very good. I told her so.
“Why, thank you.”
She smiled. “Please help yourself. There’s plenty more.”
“Mrs. McTigue,” I tried again, “were you acquainted with Beryl Madison before you invited her to speak to your group last fall?”
“Oh, yes,” she replied. “At least I was indirectly, because I’ve been quite a fan of hers for years. Her books, you see. Historical novels are my favorite.”
“How did you know she wrote them?” I asked. “Her books were written under pen names. There is no mention of her real name on the jacket or in an author’s note.” I had glanced through several of Beryl’s books on my way out of the library.
“Very true. I suppose I’m one of the few people who knew her identity–because of Joe.”
“Your husband?”
“He and Mr. Harper were friends,” she answered. “Well, as much as anyone is really Mr. Harper’s friend. They were connected through foe’s business. That’s how it started.”
“What was your husband’s business?” I asked, deciding that my hostess was much less confused than I had previously assumed.
“Construction. When Mr. Harper bought Cutler Grove, the house was badly in need of restoration.