Wanting Sheila Dead(33)

There ought to be some law against doing that to children in kindergarten, Gregor thought. But of course, it was too late to do anything about old George’s great-niece. She had to be in high school by now.

He climbed the stairs toward his apartment and thought again about a point Bennis kept on making. It would be a lot better for both of them, especially if they intended to stay on the street for the rest of their lives, if they found someplace that didn’t automatically require them to climb stairs as soon as they came in the front door. The problem was that there were no empty renovated town houses left on Cavanaugh Street. Old buildings became empty and people bought them and fixed them up, like Lida Arkmanian had done to the place across the street, and Donna and Russ had done with their place near the end of the neighborhood. Nothing was coming empty on Cavanaugh Street very soon, and the one place that was already empty was . . . ah . . .

“Too much of a project,” Gregor said out loud, as he reached what had at first been Bennis’s landing.

Bennis had occupied the second-floor apartment while he had occupied the third; they had knocked them together and put in yet another staircase. Bennis was standing just outside their door now, looking at him.

“What did you say?”

“I said that the old Zaroubian place is too much of a project,” Gregor said, reaching her. “I was thinking of your thing about finding a house. Are you all right? Who’s this person who’s shown up?”

Bennis looked behind her, but there was nobody standing in the doorway, and there was nobody to be seen beyond it in the apartment.

“Her name is Olivia Dahl,” Bennis said. “And she’s, well, she’s Sheila Dunham’s personal assistant. Or something. I’m really not too clear on the title. And I know you said you didn’t want to talk to them, Gregor, but it’s really not my fault. Bobby gave her my address and she just showed up.”

“I’ll talk to her,” Gregor said. “You should try talking to the Very Old Ladies. Or Tibor should. They seem to be determined to find a murder whether there is one or not.”

“You mean there isn’t one?”

“Well,” Gregor pointed out, “nobody is dead. There’s that. And the last I heard from the hospital, there was no evidence anybody could find of foul play. Where did you put this Dahl woman? And how do you spell her name? Doll? Like those Barbie things?”

“Dahl, like the guy who wrote Matilda,” Bennis said.

Gregor had no idea what Matilda was, but he followed Bennis into the second-floor apartment. The apartments in this building were all the same, except for old George’s on the ground floor. They each had a small foyer, and then beyond that a large living room with a window that overlooked the street. To the left and through a door was a kitchen large enough for a table to eat at. To the right and down a hallway was the bedroom. At the end of the hall that led to the bedroom was a bathroom.

Olivia Dahl was in the living room, sitting on the couch with her back to them. The room was very neat and impeccably dusted, because it was not the one Gregor and Bennis actually used. When they’d first knocked the apartments together, they had intended to use it, to make the public rooms on this floor and private ones upstairs. It just hadn’t worked out that way, except for now.

Olivia Dahl was a very thin, very straight middle-aged woman with hair that had probably been dyed blond but didn’t look it. When Gregor and Bennis came in, she turned a little on the couch and smiled at him. It was, he thought, a mechanical smile, a mark of courtesy and not emotion.

“Mr. Demarkian?” she said, standing up and holding out her hand as he came around the furniture into the room itself.

“It’s Ms. Dahl, Bennis tells me,” Gregor said.

“Just Miss,” Olivia Dahl said. “I get a little crazy with all that trendy nonsense. I sent you a letter last week.”

“You sent me a letter four days ago,” Gregor said. “By messenger. And I answered it. Also by messenger. I’m sorry you’re having trouble on your television show, Miss Dahl, but this really isn’t my kind of thing. I generally work as a consultant to police departments.”

“On murder cases,” Olivia said. “Yes, I know. Would you hear me out, please? We’ve got a rather unusual situation.”

“It really wouldn’t make any difference,” Gregor said.

“That’s because you think we staged the whole thing,” Olivia said. “Oh, I’ve got my contacts, too. But even if I didn’t, I’d know that was what you were thinking, because it’s what everybody is thinking. But I can one hundred percent guarantee it isn’t true.”