“No,” Donna Moradanyan said derisively. “I’ll take you over myself when this is done.”
Old George Tekemanian sighed.
Christopher had reached them. He had his hands in the pockets of his jeans. His jacket was unzipped. His thick patch of trademark black Hannaford hair puffed and shuddered in the breeze.
“God, it’s miserable in Philadelphia in February,” Christopher said. “It must have been miserable when I was growing up here, but I don’t remember it like that.”
“You were too busy being young,” old George Tekemanian said.
“We’ll see you two later,” Gregor told George and Donna. “Good luck with the… mechanical device.”
Donna paid no attention to him. Gregor started up the street toward the Ararat. His scarf was wrapped tightly around his throat. His coat was long and every available button was buttoned. He was wearing gloves, and his gloved hands were firmly in his pockets. How did Christopher Hannaford stand it, wearing almost nothing really warm at all?
“So,” Gregor said. “Bennis was telling me on Saturday that you knew Paul Hazzard, or had met him. That you had something to tell me about him anyway.”
“I have something to say,” Christopher Hannaford agreed carefully. “I don’t know if it will be any use to you at this point. Bennis says you already know what’s going on.”
“Not exactly,” Gregor said. “I know who committed the murder—who committed all three murders, starting with the murder of Jacqueline Isherwood Hazzard. I know what the murders were committed with, and I’m pretty sure that once the police get hold of the weapon, they’ll be able to prove it actually was the weapon. I even know why Jacqueline Isherwood Hazzard was killed and why Candida DeWitt had to die. I just don’t understand why Paul Hazzard was stabbed six times.”
“Is that official, from the police, that he was stabbed six times?”
“Oh, yes. Stabbed six times and stabbed hard. Not so hard that a woman couldn’t have done it, but hard.”
“I never believed that stuff when I read it in detective stories,” Christopher said. “A woman’s crime, a man’s crime. Even before women’s lib I didn’t believe it. The women I’ve known have mostly been capable of anything.”
“I know what you mean, but sometimes there are considerations of size involved. If you find a six-foot-ten-inch three-hundred-and-fifty-pound football player lying dead on the floor with his neck broken and the fingerprints of his assailant imprinted in his flesh, those fingerprints might belong to a woman, but she’d be a very large woman.”
“I see what you mean. I hope you see what I mean. Do you understand women?”
“No.”
“Neither do I. I don’t even understand Bennis, and she’s my own sister.”
“Nobody understands Bennis,” Gregor said. “It’s not possible.”
“Sometimes I think there’s just nothing you can do right,” Christopher went on. “If you fall in love with a woman because she’s beautiful, she’s angry at you for that. If you fall in love with her for herself and you don’t care what she looks like, she’s angry with you for that. If it matters to you how old she is, she’s angry with you for that. If it doesn’t matter to you how old she is, she’s angry with you for that. It’s enough to make you want to start drinking in the mornings.”
“The Ararat doesn’t sell alcohol in the mornings.”
“I guess I don’t really want any. I think I’m having a bad day.”
They were right at the door of the Ararat. Gregor didn’t have time to ask him if there was some woman in particular who had caused these ruminations—in Gregor’s experience, there always was—or if he was, truly, just having a bad day. Maybe this was the result of a week or so of staying in the same apartment with Bennis. That could do this kind of thing to anybody.
Gregor opened the plate glass door and let Christopher go in ahead of him. Inside, Linda Melajian was in the process of putting out little straw baskets full of heart-shaped candies on all the tables. The baskets had that unmistakable Donna Moradanyan touch. On each and every one of the baskets’ handles, a short length of red yarn had been tied into a bow and anchored with a minuscule red-and-white striped arrow.
“Isn’t it wonderful that Donna Moradanyan is feeling so much better the last couple of days?” Linda Melajian said.
Gregor took up residence in the window booth. “Wonderful,” he repeated.
“I’ll go get coffee,” Linda Melajian said. “I’ll tell my father to get ready for one cholesterol special and one mushroom omelet. Old George isn’t still sick, is he?”