Maquette for Murder by Gretchen Sprague

Author:Gretchen Sprague
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group
Published: 2000-10-15T00:00:00+00:00

The consultation over, Martha descended the stairs and pushed out through the navy-blue steel door to the street. As long as she was in Williamsburg, there was something else she should be doing.

Oh, yes, the locksmith. The horse was out of the barn, of course, but Kent Reed’s keys were still missing, and plenty of damage could still be done.

She reconnoitered a bit and found an open shop about a quarter of a block past Florence Appleton’s building. Layers of flyers and posters were taped to its windows, nearly obliterating the view of the interior; they sought or offered all manner of necessities: apartments, studio space, roommates, in-line skates, baby-sitters, copy services, dog walkers, bicycles, expert photography of art objects . . .

Here, she thought, she should be able to obtain reliable advice.

She went in.

The place was a salad bar, almost elaborate enough to be called a vegetarian deli. Six small round tables and a collection of bentwood chairs crowded the front; a refrigerated glass case held bins of salad and puddings; a vertical cooler held bottles of juices and waters. A heavy, half-bald man was sitting slumped on a stool behind the cash register, conversing with four customers at one of the tables.

The chatter broke off when Martha entered. The counterman adjusted his posture and said, “Help you?”

Martha requested a bottle of cranberry juice and asked about locksmiths.

“Scottie’s Hardware,” said the counterman. “Across the street and two blocks up.” He slid off his stool, took a bottle from the cooler, and set it on the counter next to a pile of eight-by-ten flyers announcing, in large multicolored type on black card stock, something called Color.

Martha took out her pocket notebook and wrote down Scottie’s Hardware. “I don’t suppose they’d be open now,” she said.

“He’s closed Sundays, but he opens up around eight in the morning. You new in the area?”

“I’m helping a friend. Perhaps you know Hannah Gold?”

“Oh, Hannah, sure. Awful thing. How’s she doing?”

“Improving.”

“Good, glad to hear it. When I heard what happened, I couldn’t believe it. The cops were in here the day after, asking if I saw anything unusual. Whatever that means. I mean, you know, in this neighborhood a drive-by shooting would be unusual, but face it, artists? The unusual is usual, if you know what I mean. I close at nine, so I couldn’t help them. Did they find out anything yet?”

“I’m afraid I’m not in their confidence.”

“Where is she?” asked one of the customers. He was a man of about forty with ponytailed hair that must have been carroty when he was younger. Martha remembered seeing him at the reception. He was with the same short, chunky Asian woman. “I talked to her at the hospital a couple of days ago,” he said, “but when I called today her number didn’t answer. Did they move her or something?”

His concern seemed genuine, but all Martha was prepared to say was, “She has been discharged into the care of friends.”

“She’s out? Great. Do you have a number?”

“It isn’t being given out.

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