“It does.” Mary inhaled the savory scent. “When did you become such a good cook?”
Quintessa took her seat. “I was a single gal alone in Chicago. Cook or starve.”
“Well, thank you for sharing your skills. I’m glad you moved in with us.”
“You’re just saying that because now you only have to cook twice a week.” Quintessa winked.
Mary laughed and winked back. “Now, if we could just find three more roommates...”
“Oh!” Yvette pressed one hand to her chest. “Only if they aren’t detectives.”
With bright eyes, Quintessa turned to Mary. “Speaking of detectives, what’s new in the case?”
“Must we?” Yvette shuddered. “This talk of sabotage ruins the appetite.”
“Ten minutes.” Quintessa darted out of her chair, grabbed the egg timer, and set it on the table. “No more than ten. Girl Scout promise.”
Mary waited for a nod from Yvette, then proceeded. “Everything’s been quiet since Mr. Kaplan was arrested, although Mr. Fiske still complains about shoddy work.”
Yvette sliced her pot roast and took a bite, her fork remaining in her left hand in the European style. “I saw the FBI agents today.”
Mary concealed her smile. For someone who claimed sabotage talk destroyed her appetite, she always participated in the conversation and showed a great deal of interest in Mary’s typed-up notes. “They still have an office in my building.”
Quintessa’s eyes danced. “That means they must have other suspects.”
“All Agent Sheffield will tell me is they’re building their case.” Mary divided a perfectly boiled potato. “But when I asked if he meant his case against Kaplan, he just smiled.”
“Ooh! He does have another suspect. Who do you think it is?”
Mary measured her words. “Everyone thinks it’s an interventionist, Mr. Kaplan or one of his buddies, who made it look as if Mr. Bauer planted the bomb.”
“Or...” Quintessa gazed at the ceiling and tapped her fork on her sliced pot roast. “Or it could be an isolationist who framed Mr. Kaplan to make it look like he was framing Mr. Bauer.”
Yvette drew back her chin. “That is crazy, as you Americans say.”
But Mary laughed. “As different as you and I are, Quintessa, we do think alike.”
“You are both crazy.”
Mary leaned forward. “No, think about it. Everything about the bomb was so overt, as if to say, ‘Look! An evil Nazi was here.’”
Yvette leveled her brown-eyed gaze at Mary. “An evil Naziwashere.”
“Perhaps.” Mary shrugged and took a bite of tender beef.
“If not a Nazi, who? George O’Donnell?”
Mary stared at the Frenchwoman, who was concentrating on her plate. What a strange leap to make. “Why him?”
“I have been in the drafting room. My friend Henri shows me his work. It is fascinating. But Mr. O’Donnell is angry. I ask about his drawings, but he...” She snapped her fingers.
“Snaps at you?” Mary said.
“Yes. Snaps at me.”
Quintessa rested her chin in her hand. “If only we had another clue.”
“We don’t.” Which wasn’t good for Mr. Kaplan.
