Wanting Sheila Dead(67)

Tibor opened the door and stood back to let Gregor in. The little front foyer was full of books, stacked one on top of the other against the wall, just as the foyer in the old apartment had been. The books were cleaner now, because with the new apartment the women’s auxiliary had insisted on hiring a housekeeper. This was not altogether a happy thing—it wasn’t just the foyer that was full of books stacked against the walls—but this apartment was at least more comfortable for Gregor to sit in, and he was grateful for that.

“I take it Mrs. Flack wasn’t in today,” he said, waiting for Tibor to close up.

Tibor shrugged. “She was here this morning, but I’ve finished putting everything back. Why is it that she can’t understand that Jacqueline Susann belongs with Aristotle and Augustine belongs with Stephen King?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Gregor said.

Tibor led the way into the living room. It was a much larger living room than the one in the old apartment, but it already looked cramped. Gregor sat down in a big overstuffed armchair, then immediately stood up again. He felt around in the cushions and found Last Exit to Utopia by Jean-François Revel.

“Oh, thank you,” Tibor said, taking the book. “I was looking everywhere for that. I must have left it on the chair. Mrs. Flack wouldn’t put it there, would she?”

“It doesn’t seem like her kind of thing.”

“She must have missed it. Maybe I’m wearing her down. It’s hard enough to keep track of the books in here when I don’t have somebody moving them around, but with Mrs. Flack.” Tibor shrugged. “I spent forty-five minutes last weekend trying to find my copy of Irenaeus to use in the homily, and she’d put it on a bookshelf in the bedroom. In the bedroom. The church fathers do not belong in the bedroom.”

Gregor was afraid to ask where they did belong. He didn’t put it past Tibor to say the breadbox, or the refrigerator. He stretched out his legs and put his head back.

“Have you been watching the news today?” he asked.

Tibor sat down, too. “Yes, of course, Krekor. The murder in the house where Bennis grew up. But it isn’t her family there now. She said that the other day. It’s somebody her brother has rented to.”

“A reality TV show,” Gregor said. “Do you remember the first time we ever met?”

“Yes, of course, Krekor. How could I forget?”

“That was when Bennis was still living in Boston, before she bought the apartment on the street. And she bought it because we were all here, because she’d met us when—”

“Yes, Krekor, I know. When her father was murdered in that house and when you solved the case.”

“That’s when we all met John Jackman, too. It’s odd the things you forget.”

“I haven’t forgotten any of it,” Tibor said. “But then, you know how it is. I have less on my mind than you do.”

Gregor sat forward. “Yes, well,” he said, “here’s the thing. I went to that house today on a whim. I was talking to the people dealing with Sophie Mgrdchian, and this woman, Karen we know now her name to be . . . or she says it is. Never mind. I get tangled. But that was it. I was feeling tangled and frustrated, so I got in a cab and paid the price of a trip on the space shuttle to get out to Bryn Mawr, and when I got there there was a body—there was a body right where the other body was.”

“What?”

“It was right where the other body was. I told Bennis it was in the study, and it was, but it was more than that. It was laid out in front of the hearth just like old Robert Hannaford’s body was when I first saw it.”

“And it was the same?” Tibor said. “This girl, she had her head—”

“No,” Gregor said. “No head bashed in, no bust of Aristotle to do it with. There were three visible bullet holes in her chest. Which isn’t official, by the way. I haven’t been hired by anybody at the moment. I don’t have access to official information. It looked like three bullet holes from what I could see. But the whole thing was wrong. It was just wrong. And I can’t quite put my finger on why.”

“Do you usually put your finger on things that quickly?” Tibor said. “Of course there is something wrong that you should have noticed, Krekor. That’s how a detective works. You told me that. Agatha Christie told me that.”

“Bennis says you have DVDs of the episodes I’ve been on for things like City Confidential.”

“Yes, Krekor, of course. I have all of them. Do you want to see them?”

“I want to see the City Confidential episode about the murder at Engine House. How do DVDs work? Can you pause them the way you could the VHS tapes, so they stay still on one frame and you can look at it?”