Precious Blood(105)

The cup and saucer and spoon she had been using looked as muddy as the coffee had, filthy. She put them in the dishwasher and got out new ones. Then she opened her refrigerator and stared at the three cartons of Danon strawberry yogurt that were all she had in there.

She had just made up her mind to go out for breakfast—if she got enough food into her, she might be able to sleep—when the doorman buzzed up. She froze where she was and waited, expecting to hear him say that Stuart was downstairs. She had never known Stuart to be diligent, but she had never known Stuart in this kind of situation. If she had been thinking clearly, she would have remembered she hadn’t talked to the doormen yet. Stuart would have been let right up.

“Miss Eagan?” the doorman said. He was an old man, and he had his own ideas about feminism. “There’s a Mr. Smith and a Mr. Markian wanting to come up.”

Mr. Smith and Mr. “Markian.” Gregor Demarkian, of course. Judy put down the coffee cup she was holding and went to the intercom. Stuart would never have the brains to think this up, and the doorman would never have gone along with a ruse. He was old-fashioned but not romantic. She flipped the intercom to talk and said, “Yes?”

“A Mr. Smith and a Mr. Markian,” the doorman repeated patiently. “Can they come up?”

“Yes,” Judy said again.

She flipped the intercom off again and stood back. She could think about Stuart all she wanted to, but nobody cared about Stuart. Even she didn’t. Peg Morrissey Monaghan was dead and all over the six o’clock news and that took precedence over everything. Even though it was much too soon, she went to her door, opened up, and looked out into the empty hall.

A minute later, they were there, helped by the dearth of traffic on the elevator on a Saturday morning. Smith was as big and bouncy as she remembered him. Demarkian looked tired, as tired as she was. She liked him for that. It angered her to think Smith had gone home to a good night’s sleep, with Peg lying dead.

When they got to the door, she stood back, motioned them inside, and locked up after them. Then she led the way into the kitchen and opened the cabinet over the sink to get two more coffee cups.

“It’s about Peg, isn’t it,” she said. “Don’t tell me. I know I’m being stupid. Of course it’s about Peg.”

“You’re not being stupid,” Gregor Demarkian said. He had a mild voice, gentle. Judy decided she liked him for that, too. “We’re sorry we have to bother you so early on a Saturday.”

“I was up,” Judy said. “I’m making some more coffee. Why don’t the two of you sit down.”

The two of them did sit down, but only after eyeing the table dubiously. It was a large round disk of polished glass held up by a cylindrical chrome stand. The chairs were chrome frames with canvas slung between them. The set looked too fragile to hold anyone but a good-size child.

Judy put coffee cups down in front of them and said, “I hate modern furniture. It’s supposed to look elegant, but all it is is unimaginative.”

“Mmm,” Gregor Demarkian said.

“I’ve been thinking about it all morning,” Judy said, realizing it was true. “I’m going to throw it all out and redecorate with Victorian.”

She looked at the pitcher full of coffee and blushed. What an odd thing to say, she thought, what an odd thing to think, now. She grabbed for the pitcher and said, “Sorry.”

“It’s all right,” John Smith said.

Judy filled all three cups with coffee, put the pitcher on the table, and went back to the cupboard for sugar. She had neither cream nor milk. She didn’t keep them. They were fattening.

“Maybe you ought to tell me what you want to know,” she said. “I don’t seem to be too well organized this morning.”

“It’s all right,” John Smith said again.

“It’s just a few questions about yesterday afternoon,” Gregor Demarkian said. “When you were at St. Agnes’s.”

Judy came back to the table and sat down. “At one o’clock and just before. Yes. I was there.”

“Sister Scholastica told us,” Demarkian said. “What were you there for?”

Judy blinked. If Scholastica had told them she was there, why wouldn’t she also have told them why she was there? Judy shook her head. She was getting tangled in pronouns. Maybe, as in childhood, she was getting tangled in personalities.

“It was because of the wine,” she said carefully. “The Chancery was supposed to deliver the sacramental wine, you see, on Wednesday of Holy Week. Wednesday night. But when I got to the church Holy Thursday morning—”