"No, is the correct answer," Burton told her. "We did not speak to Birdie. She didn't speak to us. We don't know who her little friends and associates might be. We never knew what she did from day to day. We don't know why she would go to a dinner at York U. None of us went there; we didn't support the place."
"How do you know it was a York dinner?" April asked.
This time Burton made the O with his mouth.
"Someone called us," Brenda said quietly. "Someone from there, a dean or someone."
"That's how you heard?" April took out her notebook and began to write.
"Of course that's how we heard." Brenda frowned at her brother.
"How did they know to call you?" April asked.
Brenda blinked. "I have no idea. It wasn't me. Burton got the call, didn't you, Burr?"
"Well, I didn't speak to anyone. Someone left a message. I was out at the time. I didn't get in until late."
"What difference does it make?" Brenda said impatiently. "You called me in the middle of the night. After that I didn't sleep a wink." She sniffed over the lost sleep.
"Did you save the message?"
"No, why should I?" Burton said.
"What did you do then?" April asked.
Silence. The siblings locked eyes.
"You know, I think I would like that water," April said, but no one made a move to get it for her. "Detective, would you like some water?"
"Thanks, water would be great." Woody was enthusiastic. Now he'd get a chance to question Burton alone.
"Miss Bassett, would you show me the kitchen?"
Brenda remained motionless in her chair. Even when April reached the door, she still resisted getting up.
"It's not like I live here," she protested finally. "I haven't lived here since I was thirteen."
"You still know where the kitchen is," her brother pointed out.
Brenda pulled herself out of the wing chair. "Follow me," she said coldly.
She led the way into the gallery with all the paintings, then through a doorway to an inside dining room that wasn't very cozy. All it had in it was an old table and some wooden chairs. When she turned around, the fluorescent light from the ceiling fixture made her look old. "The servants' dining room," she said.
"Does someone live in?" April wouldn't mind knowing what had been taken out of here since last night.
"Not anymore."
"How about daily help?"
"I wouldn't know Birdie's arrangements." Brenda moved through a doorway into a kitchen April's chef father would appreciate. It wasn't one of those new overdone ones.
This kitchen was all utility and about the size of April and Mike's one-bedroom apartment. Half of it was equipped with a huge old restaurant stove, miles of stainless-steel countertops, and high glass-doored cabinets full of crystal glasses and delicate china. The main area boasted two refrigerators, two sinks, and two dishwashers. Another section had more miles of counters, with heat lamps set into the cabinets above and a third sink and dishwasher.
"Butler's pantry." Brenda waved her hand toward the area with the heat lamps near the dining room. An open silver closet revealed felt-lined shelves, heavily laden with silver casserole dishes and plates and serving trays and salt and pepper cellars, the gamut. An elaborate coffee and tea set on a silver tray, four large candelabra, and an open chest full of flatware on the counter had already been removed.
On the question of the water, Brenda seemed stymied by the three sinks, as if each one might dispense a different flavor. April pushed open the swinging door and went into the dining room.
This, too, was like a room from a museum. The door swung closed again as April tried to absorb a level of magnificence she'd never seen before. A huge table had sixteen English-looking carved mahogany chairs set around it. A beige-and-gold Oriental carpet matched the gold trim on navy brocade drapes. The drapes were tied back with golden ropes, and the sheers underneath were closed to shield the silk-covered Queen Annes around the table from the sun. But maybe the chairs weren't Queen Anne. Who knew what they were. But April did recognize the Chinese porcelain. Valuable pieces had been removed from the display area on either side of a huge marble fireplace. A large Tang camel, an even larger Tang ram, three stunning export chargers from a much later period, and a bunch of teapots all different ages. April noticed that the marble fireplace was inlaid with brass, or maybe even gold, and above it hung a painting of a rosy-cheeked girl that April knew was a famous one. Auguste Renoir, read the brass plaque on the frame. "I thought you wanted water." Brenda pushed the door open and grimaced at the dining table loaded with expensive goodies. "They were my mother's," she said defensively.
"Very nice," April said. "But please don't touch anything else or take anything out until we're finished here."
"Why?"
"Your stepmother was murdered last night. We need to go over the apartment," April told her.
"But the police were already here."
No doubt they were. Soon after the body had been identified, someone would have come to the apartment to notify the next of kin. But there had been no next of kin, and no one had stayed behind to guard the place. If Birdie had died there, the apartment would still be overrun with cops. April couldn't even guess how much the contents of the apartment were worth. But if Birdie Bassett had made a will, then her estate probably owned them. Who owned what, however, wasn't her department.
"Maybe, but there's still a lot to do. I'd like to see her bedroom," April said smoothly. Did she ever, and Birdie Bassett's jewelry box, and her closet and the contents of her medicine cabinet and her cosmetics, and the messages on her answering machine, and pretty much everything else.
Brenda gave her a truly hostile look. "What about that water?" she asked.
"Maybe later," April replied.
Thirty-nine
Jason returned many of his calls, but he delayed returning the urgent phone call of Sid Barkow, president of the institute. At four p.m. he felt he couldn't in good conscience wait any longer. He dialed the number in a fifteen-minute break between patients, fervently praying that he'd reach Sid's voice mail and be spared talking to Sid himself. Sid must have been screening his calls, because he picked up immediately. "Hello."
"Hi, Sid, it's Jason." Jason tried not to sound disappointed.
"I know who you are. But I'm with someone. When are you free to talk?" Sid let his breath out in a long whoosh, as if he'd been holding it in all day.
"I'm free now, Sid," Jason told him.
"Okay, well, I'm just finishing up. I'll call you back in five minutes." Sid hung up. Five minutes later he called back, and right away his hysteria spewed out. "For God's sake, Jason, did you hear about Mrs. Bassett?"
"Yes. I saw the story on the news. Very sad," Jason murmured. The more he'd thought about it all day the sadder it became.
"Jesus, it's just such bad luck. Did you have a chance to talk to her about the institute?"
"You know, Sid, you're a-" Jason almost let his mouth say sleazy bastard, but he stopped himself in time. What was the point in antagonizing an old colleague? "No, I was supposed to meet with her today."
"Oh, God, that's just terrible. Who gets control of Max's foundation now?" he asked.
"You know, Sid, I wouldn't know that." Jason was distressed by the one-track mind. Institute, institute, institute. Couldn't anyone take a break? Poor Mrs. Bassett. She'd sounded like a nice lady.
"I thought you knew Max so well," Sid started whining. Now that the legacy was gone, he must feel very threatened.
"I didn't know him that well." In fact, Jason had met with Max dozens of times over the years and they'd talked about many things, but never about his dying someday, or the details of his foundation.