He examined the living room carefully, trying to find some hint of her personality, a trace of her habits. There was a rug of a neutral sand shade on the floor, a few pictures on the wall that appeared to be cheap mail-order prints of Dufy, Cézanne, and Monet, and in one corner an inexpensive-looking Korean stereo so new it looked unused. Dill didn’t bother to examine the two dozen or so records. He knew if they were Felicity’s, they would be Beethoven, Bach, the early Beatles, plus every song Yves Montand had ever recorded.
The living room blended into a dining area where four chairs surrounded a drop-leaf maple table that looked as if it had been ordered by catalogue from Sears. A fake Tiffany lamp hung by a heavy golden chain over the table. That’s not Felicity either, Dill thought.
In the kitchen he peered into the refrigerator and found four bottles of Perrier, a stick of butter, three eggs, a jar of Dijon mustard, and a loaf of whole-wheat bread with three or four slices gone. He remembered that his sister had always kept her bread in the refrigerator. He took out one of the Perriers, twisted its top off, and drank from the bottle.
With the bottle in his left hand, Dill opened the doors to the kitchen cabinets. There were a set of dishes — fairly good Japanese imitations of Dansk — a half dozen glasses, and a few bowls. Nothing else. Where the canned goods, the spices, and the staples should have been were only two cans of Van Camp’s pork and beans, a jar of Yuban instant coffee, almost empty, a round box of Morton’s salt, a small box of Schilling black pepper, but no other spices, not even tarragon, which Dill remembered his sister had dumped into virtually everything.
To cook with there was only a frying pan, nearly new, and a couple of battered aluminum pots that would do to boil the eggs and heat up the beans. In one of the drawers, Dill discovered enough stainless steel knives, forks, and spoons for two. He opened the rest of the drawers, but found nothing except a few kitchen odds and ends. He wondered what Felicity had done with their mother’s silver.
Still carrying his bottle of Perrier, Dill went from the kitchen back into the living room and then down a short hall. The second door on the left led into what apparently had been his sister’s bedroom. There was a double bed, neatly made up, a chest of drawers, and a dresser with a mirror. It was a matched set made out of walnut veneer, and it looked both cheap and fairly new. A small table by the bed’s left-hand side held a Tensor reading lamp. Dill opened the table’s drawer. It contained only a round shallow plastic box of birth-control pills.
Dill opened the closet next. Hanging there were a few dresses, some slacks, several blouses, a light trench coat, but no winter coat. Five pairs of shoes were lined up primly on the closet floor. There was one pair of black pumps and the rest were sandals, loafers, and a scuffed-up pair of green jogging shoes.
In the drawers of the dresser and the bureau Dill found only a couple of sweaters in plastic dry cleaner’s bags, a few folded shirts and blouses, some underwear, panty hose, and not much else. There was just enough clothing, he decided, to last someone a month or two, possibly three. But there were no keepsakes or mementos or souvenirs or anything, for that matter, that would attest to character, personality, or bad habits — except that whoever had lived there was obsessively neat and apparently despised either cooking or eating.
Dill left the large bedroom and went down the hall into the second, smaller bedroom, which turned out to be the den of someone who had run out of money. There were a card table, a bridge lamp, and on the card table a very old Remington portable typewriter. A canvas director’s chair was drawn up to the table. To the table’s right was a gray two-drawer metal file. Dill stooped, opened the file’s top drawer, and then the bottom one. Both were empty. He assumed the police had removed the contents. There was nothing at all in the second bedroom’s closet except three wire coat-hangers.
From the smaller bedroom/den, Dill went into the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. He found aspirin, Tampax, Crest, makeup, a razor, but no prescription drugs. The soap dish held a cake of Yardley’s and the toothbrush holder held two toothbrushes and a small container of green waxed dental floss. There was nothing else in the bathroom other than some towels and washcloths and a plastic shower cap. There was not even, Dill noted, a bathroom scale. He thought that might be significant; that it might even be a clue.
Dill left the bathroom and started back to the kitchen to see if he could find where Felicity had kept her liquor. He thought under the kitchen sink would be the most likely place. He was almost to the kitchen when the doorbell rang. Dill turned, crossed to the door, and opened it. Standing there in skimpy yellow shorts and an equally skimpy blue polka-dot halter and no shoes was a well-tanned, long-legged woman whose limp blond curls seemed to be gasping for air. She had large blue eyes, too large really, a shiny pink nose, and a wide mouth coated with dark-red lipstick that was exactly the wrong shade.
“You’re the brother, aren’t you?” the woman said.
“I’m the brother,” Dill agreed.
“You got the same hair she had — sort of copper-colored. But you don’t look much like her, except for the hair.”
“She was pretty; I’m not.”
“Well, men aren’t supposed to be pretty, are they?” the woman said, and for a moment, Dill was afraid she might simper, but she didn’t.
“You’re what — a friend, a neighbor?” Dill asked.
“Oh, I’m Cindy. Cindy McCabe. Me and Harold live downstairs. We’re, you know, the tenants.”
“Harold is Mr. McCabe.” Dill didn’t make it a question.
“Well, no, not exactly. I mean we’re not exactly married. Harold’s last name is Snow. Harold Snow. We’ve been together for, oh, I guess, two years now. At least two.” She paused. When she spoke again her voice was low, her tone important. “Harold saw it happen to Felicity — well, almost.”
“You’d better come in,” Dill said.
“I guess it would be a little cooler than out here, wouldn’t it?”
Chapter 12
Cindy McCabe came in and sat down in the easy chair that matched the green couch. She stuck out her lower lip and blew upward, as if to blow away the light film of sweat that coated her forehead and upper lip. “Isn’t this heat something?” she said, obviously expecting no answer.
“I was about to have a drink,” Dill said. “Like to join me?”
“Well, a cold beer would be nice.”
“Sorry. No beer. Unless I find where Felicity keeps the booze, it’ll have to be plain Perrier.”
“Under the kitchen sink,” McCabe said.
“That’s what I thought,” Dill said and headed for the kitchen.
There were two bottles of green-label Jim Beam under the sink next to the liquid Ivory and the Easy-Off and the Comet. One of the bottles was still sealed. The level of the other one was down two inches. Dill remembered Felicity had always drunk bourbon, when she drank at all, because she claimed it had a more honest taste than Scotch. He also remembered that she thought vodka was a soak’s drink and gin was for those who had run out of Aqua Velva. Rum, however, was okay, especially if mixed with Kool-Aid. As Dill poured whiskey over the ice and added the Perrier, he wondered why he had found no Kool-Aid. Once again, Watson, he told himself, the dog doesn’t bark.