“Like an old neighbor?”
She smiled.“She is certainlyold, but… she has the suite of rooms next door to Mr.Hayes.They were…" A smile warmed her whole face."Sweethearts.Or as close as two people with that much history and that much frailty can be.They would sit every morning together in the garden.She calmed him.Even when the dementia worsened, he recognized her.Her name, not his daughter’s.”
“Maybe I could come back tomorrow and speak to her?You see, I’ll be honest with you, there are… elements of Miss Hayes’s murder that suggest it had something to her relationship with her father.If I can find out what caused the estrangement…”
He wondered why he was being so frank.Scrap that, Marcus knew damn well why he was being so frank.And it was bordering on unprofessional.
Nevertheless, Ulrike rose from her seat with a smile.“Come.We can see her now.”
Marcus rose.“Are you sure?It’s very late.”
A small, warm smile tugged at the corner of her mouth — the first sign of softness not worn by grief or professionalism.“Agent Reid, in a place like this, late is relative.And besides—” She gave him a slow, appraising once-over, eyes bright with humour.“For you, I think Peggy will be pleased to talk.”
He cleared his throat — unnecessary, but instinctive.
“Well,” he said lightly, “lead the way.”
Ulrike held the door for him.
*
Ulrike led Marcus down a quieter corridor — carpet thick enough to muffle footsteps, sconces glowing with that expensive, amber light places like this used to reassure the wealthy that age would not be allowed to look undignified.The doors all bore soft, elegant plaques:Rose Suite, Bay Suite, Willow Suite.
Peggy's wasThistle, though nothing about the hallway felt thorny.
Ulrike knocked twice, gently.
A rustle answered — then a voice, papery but bright:
“Come in, darling, unless you’re here to make me do physiotherapy.In which case, go away.”
Ulrike smiled as she opened the door.“No physiotherapy.Someone much nicer.”
“Ha!We’ll see.”
Peggy’s apartment was small, but it felt like stepping into the memory of a much larger life.Bookshelves sagged under the weight of hardbacks from every decade since the fifties.Photographs — black-and-white wedding portraits, laughing children at beaches, a younger Peggy in sunglasses holding a glass of wine somewhere improbably glamorous — covered every wall.A brass étagère displayed souvenirs: a blown-glass fish, a miniature Eiffel Tower, a programme from the 1968 Boston Pops.
And in the center of it all, perched neatly in an armchair as if expecting royalty, sat Peggy.
She was tiny — birdlike — with a cloud of white hair pinned in a hasty knot, eyes bright as cut glass, a silk scarf knotted at her throat like she’d refused to grow old in anything less than Technicolor.She brightened at the sight of Ulrike, then noticed Marcus behind her and broke into an expression of delighted appraisal.
“Well.You brought me a tall one.”
Marcus laughed.“Evening, ma’am.”
“That accent… hmm.”Peggy narrowed her eyes.“Not from here.Virginia?Something with hills.”
“Er, New York City, ma’am,” Marcus said, bashfully.“Bensonhurst.”
“I’m losing my touch.What’s your name?”
“Marcus Reid.”
“Well, Marcus Reid, come sit.Handsome men are always welcome, provided they don’t try to sell me life insurance.”
Marcus sat.The chair creaked under him; it clearly wasn’t used to this scale of visitor.
Ulrike settled on the sofa beside Peggy.Her tone gentled.“We came because we need to talk about Leo.”
