“And how did Dr. Teufel release you?”
“He told Agna they were vitamin shots. And she believed him.” Clara Schwartz took another puff. “What a ninny.” She laughed, a mean, tight laugh.
“What were the vitamin shots?”
“They weren’t even shots. The medicine was given through an IV drip. What fool thinks vitamins are given through an IV drip?”
Dr. Carroll made a note. “What was in the drip?”
“Something else,” Clara said. “Something bad.”
“Do you know what it was specifically?”
She smiled, her eyes lit from within. “Hate.”
“Who do you hate?”
“You know.”
“Tell me.”
“The Jews, of course. The kikes.”
“Who else?”
“The niggers.”
“Who else?”
“The Italians, the southern ones. The northern Italians are all right. The French—well, they can go either way. Gallic blood is unpredictable.”
“Who else?”
“The Russians. The Commie Jews.”
“And what does Dr. Teufel—what do I—want you to do to them?”
“Not do—avoid. Keep racial purity at all costs.” Clara flicked ashes on the floor. “I want to go out. I’m tired of being in here. I want to look up at the sky.”
“You can see the sky from the window.”
“I want to feel the moonlight on my skin. Don’t you ever want to feel the moonlight on your skin?”
“But Agna doesn’t get out of here, either, does she?”
“I’m bored!” Clara spat. Then, “You know her mother is sick, don’t you?”
The doctor leaned back in his chair. “No, I didn’t.”
“The dirty disease. The nasty disease. Syphilis.” Clara’s smile was cat-like. “She’s a whore, you know.”
“Does Agna know her mother is sick?”
“The whore’s not sick, she’s dying. No, Agna’s not strong enough to know.”
“Was her mother ever kind to her? Before she became sick?”
A grimace twisted Clara’s face. “No. She never had time for Agna. And when she was around, she was constantly criticizing her. The girl couldn’t do anything right, ever. Her mother broke her, broke her spirit, broke her heart. She broke Agna and the father pretended not to see. All he did was hide behind his books. He pretended not to know.”
“And where were you?”
“I was watching. I was watching as her mother broke her.”
“And why didn’t you come out?”
“Because …” Clara Schwartz smiled, revealing pearly teeth. “Because if I’d been let out to play, I would have slit her mother’s throat—and her weak, impotent father’s as well.”
Wearing gloves, Maggie and Mark found the boxes that had been in Estelle and Sarah’s dressing room, crammed with tubes of lipstick, pans of pancake foundation and sponges, and cakes of mascara with black comb brushes. There was a vase, but no flowers.
“No!” Maggie said, refusing to accept the facts staring her in the face when they went upstairs to confront Officer Craig. “No—maybe they were put somewhere else. Maybe somewhere to dry?”
“I’m afraid if it’s not here, then we don’t have it, Miss,” Officer Craig said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sorry, but if there were fresh flowers, and it’s been how long?” He whistled through his teeth. “They were probably moldy—stinking up the place.”
“So, then what would happen?” Maggie persisted.
“What d’you mean, Miss?”
“Say the flowers were at the theater. If they’d been brought here, cataloged as evidence—but then thrown out. Where would they have been thrown?”
“Well …” More neck scratching. “The compost bin, Miss. We’ve a wee Victory garden out back—back o’ the building, next t’ the garden.”
Maggie started running. Mark followed at her heels.
“But someone may have given it a turn—you might need to dig through the muck, Miss!”
“So when he said ‘given it a turn,’ he meant …” Maggie’s nose crinkled.
They looked over the police department’s small Victory garden. Sure enough, there was a wooden composting bin off to one side. Made of wooden slats with space between to allow the air to circulate, it gave off a distinctly unpleasant odor.
“Mixed it all up, with a shovel. Meaning if the bouquet’s in there, it won’t be anywhere near the top. We’re going to have to dig for it.”
Maggie stepped closer. “Fantastic. Simply marvelous.”