I blinked. “Excuse me. What check?”
“You’re kidding, right? You do have papers for me to sign?”
“I have a few questions for you, Mrs. Glockner. That’s all.”
The woman’s sunny disposition clouded and a thunderous flash of pique bolted across her pretty features. It suddenly reminded me of her daughter’s mercurial moods—I’d seen plenty of them when the girl had worked for me.
“I thought I answered all of your questions,” she said, almost petulantly.
“I’ve never spoken with you before, Mrs. Glockner.”
“I can’t believe you people don’t talk to each other down at that office!” She threw up her hands. “How can you make a profit when you don’t manage redundancies like this!”
“What?”
She stared at me and I stared back. “You’re from the insurance company, right? You’re here to close out my late husband’s policy.”
“I’m sorry you misunderstood, Mrs. Glockner. I’m not from any insurance company. I was simply a friend of your late husband’s.”
She sat back, smirking, and crossed her long legs. “A friend of Alfred’s, huh? What kind of friend?”
“Alf was a customer at my coffeehouse. I also employed your daughter, Vicki, at one time; and to tell you the truth, Mrs. Glockner, Vicki was the one who asked me to step in and look into her father’s murder. She has concerns that the detectives on the case are on the wrong track—”
“Well, she’s right about that!” The woman cried. “Two of them showed up at my real estate office to question me—and on one of my busiest days, too! The jerk with the red, white, and blue babushka almost scared one of my clients off for good!”
“You’re talking about Detective Franco?”
“Yes, that was his name.”
I raised an eyebrow at that. Why would Detective Franco bother to interview Shelly Glockner? Oddly thorough for a cop who claims he’s only looking for an ordinary street thug in a random mugging.
Mrs. Glockner shook her head. “That’s always been one of my Vicki’s many problems.”
“What has?”
“She’s just like her father. Can’t let anything go!”
I gestured to the Alf-free pictures on the mantel. “I can see you don’t have that problem, do you?”
“Why?” Mrs. Glockner narrowed her eyes. “Because I don’t keep my husband’s picture around for sentimental reasons?”
“I understand. I know he was about to become your ex-husband.”
“New York State law requires that a couple live apart for a year before a divorce can be finalized. We’d just reached that merry milestone when Alf began dodging my lawyers. Not that it matters now.” She sighed. “You see, Ms. Cosi, I met Alf in high school. We married a year after graduation. Vicki was born later—a pleasant surprise after years of thinking we couldn’t even get pregnant.” With a deep breath she rose, crossed to the mantel, and reached for a framed photo tucked behind the others. “We spent more than thirty years together, but this is what Alf truly loved.”
She shoved the framed photo into my hands. It was an old one, showing a younger, slimmer Alf standing under the green awning of his restaurant: Alfred’s. Beneath the name, in much smaller print were the words Steaks, Chops, Fine Wine.
“It was a traditional New York-style steakhouse bordering the La Tourette Golf Course. He borrowed and borrowed and mortgaged this house to open that restaurant. For a lot of years, it was a success. People came because they loved Alf. It was like a party every night—folks around here still tell me they miss it. Not that they did much to help keep him in business...” She fell silent.
“What happened?” I asked. “To Alf’s restaurant, I mean.”
Shelly Glockner took back the picture and stared at it. “The recession. The entire New York financial sector taking it in the neck. That and Alf’s drinking, which got worse and worse as his business declined. Of course, it didn’t help that he hadn’t changed the menu or that dark, imposing decor in fifteen years. Tastes change, and that dump was so old-school! I told him so. Many times. Then Alf finally decided I might be right. He remodeled twice, changed the menu, offered deals, advertised. Nothing helped.”
She set the picture behind the others and faced me. “Stu pidly, I let him continue the farce. Really stupid because we hadn’t saved much over the years.”
“Why not?”
She waved her hand. “Vacations, spas, a pleasure boat, remodeling the house, the hot tub and sauna in the back—”
Plastic surgery for you, I silently added.
“We never expected the Manhattan financial sector to collapse, for heaven’s sake! That it would take down dozens of restaurants all over the city! Anyway, Alf refused to close, tried to keep his place afloat by burning through the small nest egg we did have—which was my hard-earned money as well as his. But then his whole identity was wrapped up in that business.”
“What do you mean his whole identity? He was a husband, a father—”
“Oh, please. That was never enough. Alf couldn’t imagine doing anything but being a restaurateur. When he lost his place, he just”—she shrugged—“lost himself.”
Just then, the phone rang. “Excuse me.” She took the call, standing and staring into space. Then she barked into the receiver. “No! I told both parties that already. If Mr. Ma houd wants to back out, that’s fine. But we keep the deposit. I haven’t had a commission in six months, so I’m not playing here. You just warn him that I’ll see him in court!”
She hung up and faced me again. “Are we done? I have a session with my personal trainer in twenty.”
“Just a few more questions. What happened after Alf spent your nest egg on the restaurant?”
Mrs. Glockner exhaled with obvious impatience. “Alf wanted to take a second mortgage on our home, that’s what happened. We’d just paid off this house after twenty-five years. I wasn’t going to sit still for that, so I put my foot down and refused to allow it. Banks wouldn’t help him, so Alf took out that ridiculous loan from our neighbor.”
“Ridiculous? Why?”
“Because I knew the restaurant was dead by then, that’s why! I knew we could never pay Omar Linford back—not without selling this house! Alf was deluding himself, Ms. Cosi. He was a failure and a drunk, and only digging himself in deeper with that loan. That’s when I knew it was time to move on. So I had my lawyers draw up papers and I asked a judge for a separation.”
I frowned, wondering how I might have fared with a marital partner like Shelly Glockner. Maybe it wasn’t very nice of me to judge the woman, since I hadn’t walked a mile in her cross-trainers. But I was a first wife, too. A bad marriage with an addict could hard-boil any woman’s heart, but it appeared to me, after all those years together—not to mention Alf being a father to their daughter—that Mrs. Glockner was suspiciously unaffected by her husband’s murder.
Once again, I began to wonder about that blackmail letter...
“I just had lunch with Omar Linford, Mrs. Glockner. Are you aware Mr. Linford is alleging that Alf tried to blackmail him?”
“That’s preposterous.”
“I heard the whole story from Mr. Linford himself.”
“And you believe that pirate?”
“Mr. Linford claims he has proof. In fact—” I checked my watch. “I’m headed over there right now to pick up the note and turn it over to the NYPD, where it will be analyzed. With forensic science today, they can determine if the letter was really sent by Alf—fingerprints, fibers, DNA. It’s amazing what they can do.”
Frankly, I didn’t know what the police could accomplish, but I wanted to shake Mrs. Glockner’s brittle little tree, see what might come loose.
It worked. The second I mentioned the NYPD, her face flashed redder than Rudolph’s nose.