Nocturne Read Free Page B

royalty all over the world, in fact. She had a lot of memories.”
    “When did she tell you these stories?”
    “Oh, in the afternoons. We had tea together every now and then.”
    “In her apartment?”
    “Yes. It was another tradition. Tea time. She had a lovely tea set. I had to pour because of her hands. We used to sit and
     listen to records she’d made when she was famous. And sip tea in the late afternoon. It reminded me of T. S. Eliot somehow.”
    Me, too, Hawes thought, but again did not say.
    “So when you said you knew her just to talk to,” Carella said, “you were including these visits to her apartment …”
    “Oh, yes.”
    “… when you listened to music together.”
    “Yes. Well, my apartment, too. Some nights, I invited her in. We had little dinner parties together. She was alone and lonely
     and … well, I didn’t want her to start drinking too early. She tended to drink more heavily at night.”
    “By heavily …?”
    “Well … she started drinking as soon as she woke up in the morning, in fact. But at night … well … she sometimes drank herself
     into a stupor.”
    “How do you know that?” Hawes asked.
    “She told me. She was very frank with me. She knew she had a problem.”
    “Was she doing anything about it?”
    “She was eighty-three years old. What could she do about it? The arthritis was bad enough. But she wore a hearing aid, you
     know. And lately, she began hearing ringing in her head, and hissing, like a kettle, you know? And sometimes a roaring sound,
     like heavy machinery? It was really awful. She told me her ear doctor wanted to send her to a neurologist for testing, but
     she was afraid to go.”
    “When was this?” Hawes asked.
    “Before Thanksgiving. It was really so sad.”
    “These afternoon teas,” Carella said, “these little dinner parties … was anyone else at them? Besides you and Miss Dyalovich?”
    Somehow he liked that better than Mrs. Helder. Cover of
Time
magazine, he was thinking. You shouldn’t end up as Mrs. Helder.
    “No, just the two of us. In fact, I don’t think she had any other friends. She told me once that all the people she’d known
     when she was young and famous were dead now. All she had was me, I guess. And the cat. She was very close to poor Irina. What’s
     going to happen to her now? Will she go to an animal shelter?”
    “Miss, he killed the cat, too,” Hawes said.
    “Oh dear. Oh dear,” Karen said, and was silent for a moment. “She used to go out early every morning to buy fresh fish for
     her, can you imagine? No matter how cold it was, arthritic old lady. Irina
loved
fish.”
    Her brown eyes suddenly welled with tears. Hawes wanted to take her in his arms and comfort her. Instead, he said, “Did she
     have any living relatives?”
    People to inform, Carella thought. He almost sighed.
    “A married daughter in London.”
    “Do you know her name?”
    “No.”
    “Anyone here in this country?”
    “I think a granddaughter someplace in the city.”
    “Ever meet her?”
    “No.”
    “Would you know
her
name?”
    “No, I’m sorry.”
    “Did Miss Dyalovich ever mention any threatening phone calls or letters?”
    “No.”
    Run her through the drill, Carella was thinking.
    “Had she ever seen anyone lurking around the building …?”
    “No.”
    “Following her …?”
    “No.”
    “Do you know of any enemies she may have had?”
    “No.”
    “Anyone with whom she may have had a continuing dispute?”
    “No.”
    “Anyone she may have quarreled with?”
    “No …”
    “Even anyone on unfriendly terms with her?”
    “No.”
    “Did she owe anyone money?”
    “I doubt it.”
    “Did anyone owe
her
money?”
    “She was an old woman living on welfare. What money did she have to lend?”
    Toast of six continents, Hawes thought. Ends up living on welfare in a shithole on Lincoln. Sipping tea and whiskey in the
     late afternoon. Listening to her own old 78s. Her hands all gnarled.
    “This granddaughter,”