The room was unchanged. The bird statues held their various poses: singing, cocking their little heads, roosting on wax nests. Anya herself was different, however. Clad in a long black dress and fringed silk shawl of red and gold poppies, she looked every bit her role of prophetess. Her hair was swept up on her head by an ornate silver comb, and her lips shone with crimson gloss. I wondered if she had dressed up for Jeffrey’s return — and if indeed there would be one.
She motioned me into a chair and asked with a touch of impatience, “Well, what is it, honey?”
“Anya, you and Molly were good friends, right?”
“The best.”
“She confided in you?”
“Naturally. She came to me for spiritual advice every week. She held nothing back.”
“And, since you were such good friends, you want to see her killer caught, don’t you?”
She frowned. “Of course. I don’t see what you’re getting at.”
“Just this: The day she was killed, Molly came to you for her weekly consultation. I’m sure she told you about the things that were bothering her. What she said could lead me to her killer.”
Anya drew the shawl more closely around her shoulders. “You’re asking me to betray a professional confidence, honey. I told you last night, I can’t do that. It’s like asking a doctor to show you a patient’s case history. Or asking a lawyer what his client said to him in private.”
The overly grand comparisons irritated me, but I said, “It’s permissible to give out that kind of information to aid in a murder investigation. Even psychiatrists will do that.”
She sat up straighter. “I suppose you’re right. We professionals do have a duty...” A sudden thought seemed to hit her. “Wait, are you investigating the murder? For All Souls?”
“How do you know where I work?”
“From Molly. She often told me useful things...” Again she paused, flushing.
“Like the things about my friend Linnea that you probably used in her reading. And the things you used in mine last night.”
“We meant no harm. You’ve got to understand.”
“Understand what?”
“It’s hard to make a living in this business, honey. A little inside information makes the reading more convincing.”
“Look, I’m not here to question your ethics. I want to know what Molly told you.”
She was silent.
“Whatever it was, it’s been extremely useful to you.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” She tried to feign indignance, but the words came out flat.
“Yes, you do, Anya. Molly told you something, something that’s given you power over Jeffrey again. You’d been looking for that leverage for a long time.”
Stubbornly she shook her head.
“Do you deny you called Jeffrey at the Blind Center around eleven last night?”
“I didn’t!”
“I was there, Anya.”
“Well, doesn’t a wife have the right to call her husband? I needed to ask him some questions about... about our joint income tax return.”
“Whatever you said, I don’t think you went into your real business on the phone. You probably made an appointment with him — I’d say for early this afternoon.”
Her dark eyes glittered. “Why would I do that?”
“To issue an ultimatum. To tell him either he come home to you or you would go to the police with the thing Molly left with you for safekeeping. Whatever that thing is, it implicates Jeffrey in her death, doesn’t it?”
“No!” she exclaimed. “No! It certainly does not!”
“Then at least you admit Molly left something with you. What was it? Was it the thing Jeffrey couldn’t find when he searched her apartment the other night?”
“He didn’t!”
“Do you really want to coerce a murderer into living with you? Doesn’t that seem awfully risky?”
Anya bent her head. “He’s not a murderer,” she whispered.
Cruelly, I pressed on. “Oh, no? Do you know what Jeffrey told Herb Clemente this afternoon? He said he’d rather see you dead than come back to you. That doesn’t sound like a man I’d want in my house.”
Her head came up, and her mouth formed a little “o” before her hand covered it.
Sickened by the way I’d demolished her world, I forced myself to continue. “It’s true, Anya. I heard him.”
The crow moved restively in its cage. After a long moment, Anya lowered her hand and asked weakly, “He’s not coming home, is he?”
“No, he’s not. He doesn’t love you, and you’re better off without him. Now will you give me whatever Molly...”
“No!” She jumped to her feet, fists clenched in sudden panic. Frantically she turned this way and that, as if she were cornered. The gay scarf slipped from her shoulders to the floor, where she trampled it.
“I won’t let you do this to me!” she wailed. “You can’t spoil Jeffrey’s homecoming! Why, I dressed up for him. I made him a cake. I bought his favorite whiskey. He’s got to come. He will. You’ll see.”
Her breath came in pants, and her glistening eyes darted desperately from side to side. I had the frightening sensation that something deep inside of her had snapped. Suddenly she whirled on me, her face alight with insane hope.
“Look, I can prove it,” she announced. “I can prove he’s not a killer. I have something to show you. Go look, please.” She stretched out a shaking hand toward the archway at the rear of the room.
I went where she pointed. It was a closed door off the hallway.
“Open it,” Anya commanded from behind me.
It was an ordinary bathroom. “I don’t see what...”
As I turned, Anya came on in a rush. She pushed me into the room, and my hip slammed into the washbasin. The door began to close. I lunged for it, then shrank back. Anya thrust the crow inside.
In horror, I retreated to the far end of the narrow room.
The crow flapped about, looking for a place to light. Brushing me with frantic wings, it landed on the shower curtain rod. There it perched, screeching in distress.
I cringed against the wall, breathing hard.
Aloud, I said, “Sharon, it’s a ridiculous fear! Calm down. Don’t scare the thing. It might fly again.”
The crow was between me and the door. I looked for another exit. There was a window to my left, but it was nailed shut. Even if I got it open, I was three stories above the ground. Still...
My eye on the crow, I rummaged in my bag for a suitable implement. All I found was a corkscrew. It would have to do. I sidled over to the window and began to pry at the nails.
The crow took off. Its wings flapped wildly. I almost dropped the corkscrew. The bird landed on top of the medicine chest and screeched louder.
I watched it for a minute, aware of voices in the hall beyond the closed door. Anya had called in reinforcements. My palms felt clammy as I turned back to the window. The nails began to yield.
After what seemed like hours of feverish work, the nails gave way. I thrust the window open and crouched down, covering my head with my arms.
“Come on, Hugo. Nice Hugo,” I coaxed. “See the open window? There’s all that world outside.”
The bird ceased screeching. I hazarded a look. His head was cocked in curiosity. In seconds, he flapped over and perched on the sill. I crawled toward the door.
The bird’s head bobbed from side to side. Then his wings spread, and he was gone.
I stood up and looked for a weapon. The light metal towel rack was the kind that snapped onto brackets. I popped it off and hefted it. It was scarcely heavy enough to swat a fly, but, like the corkscrew, it would have to do.
Cautiously, I turned the knob and opened the door a crack. All was quiet. I opened it further. No voices. The towel bar upraised, I stepped into the hall and crept along to the archway.