“I know.” He squeezed her shoulder. “Let’s go.”
“Wait.” Genevieve checked her reflection in the mirror, applied a fresh coat of lipstick, then smoothed her hair. “How do I look?” she asked.
“Fine,” he said, without looking at her. She rolled her eyes and got out of the car.
“Which one?” Brandon asked. They stood, surveying the stacks of nondescript apartment units.
“Detective Christie said the witness spotted the mystery man from her kitchen window,” Genevieve mused, “so that narrows it down to the apartments on this side of the balcony units. And it would have to be this building, because that one,” she pointed to the other building, “has bedroom windows facing this side.”
“Sounds legit,” Brandon said. “Let’s get knocking.”
They tried 126 first, the unit adjacent to Ms. Pierce’s. No one answered. Next, they tried the unit directly above 124. That one was answered by an elderly man with no shirt, no hair, and an obvious hearing problem.
“What?” he shouted when Genevieve introduced herself. She leaned closer to him, trying to be discreet, and said, “My name is Genevieve Winterland. I wanted to ask you about the night your neighbor, Ms. Pierce—”
“Who?” he hollered. Genevieve could smell bacon on his breath.
“Didn’t you say the witness was a woman?” Brandon whispered to her.
“Sir,” Genevieve shouted, “is your wife at home?”
The man waved an arthritic hand. “The wife died years ago, kids. It’s just me and the goldfish now.”
Genevieve thanked him and backed out of his doorway.
“You’re welcome, anytime!” he yelled after her.
They climbed the steps to the third floor and had barely knocked on the first apartment when the door flew open, as if the tenant had been expecting them. “You’re looking for someone with information on the murder?” the woman asked brusquely.
Genevieve blinked. “How did you—?”
“I don’t have a hearing problem,” she said pointedly, jabbing her finger to indicate the floor beneath them. “Come on in.”
Brandon and Genevieve followed the woman—who was dressed in yellow slacks and a flowery green blouse—into the home. She had a fussy look about her, Genevieve thought—every silvery curl in perfect place, her false nails polished to perfection. A quick appraisal of her sitting room reflected the same meticulous habits: sparkling clean surfaces, carefully arranged throw pillows, and bookshelves that looked recently dusted yet somehow unused, as if the books on them were merely decorative.
“Have a seat, please,” the woman said, gesturing to the sofa and settling into the armchair across from it. Genevieve sat, careful not to disturb the pillows, although Brandon sank luxuriously back into his. He better not fall asleep, she thought.
“Thank you for inviting us in, Mrs.—?”
“Dixon.”
“Mrs. Dixon. This is Brandon, and I’m—”
“Genevieve Winterland, yes,” Mrs. Dixon cut her off impatiently. “As I said, I do not suffer from hearing loss.” Her eyes narrowed shrewdly at Genevieve. “You’re the one who found her.” She heaved a sigh that seemed awfully exaggerated. “That was a bad business.”
“Yes, it was,” Genevieve said. There was a weighty silence into which Genevieve assumed the woman expected her to supply her with details. What Mrs. Dixon didn’t know was that Genevieve was well accustomed to dealing with gossips. She waited her out with a polite smile.
“Yes, well,” Mrs. Dixon said, “I heard she wasn’t exactly a favorite of you students at Pinewood. Not that I can blame you. She wasn’t exactly the friendliest of neighbors either.” Her penciled brows knitted together, and Genevieve heard Brandon clear his throat.
“Right, so we—”
“Not that she deserved what she got; of course I’m not suggesting that,” Mrs. Dixon continued, with an airy laugh. “I’m just saying, they’ll have a hard time narrowing down the suspect list if—”
“That’s why we’re here,” Genevieve interrupted. “We’d heard you told the detective on the case that someone had visited Ms. Pierce the night she died.”
“Of course, it’s not like me to meddle in my neighbors’ affairs.”
“Of course not,” Brandon said warmly, and she looked at him as if she’d just noticed he was there.
“Would either of you care for tea?”
“No thank you,” Genevieve said at the same time Brandon said, “I’d love some!” Genevieve shot him a sideways glance, half exasperated, half amused. Brandon hated tea.
Mrs. Dixon smiled winningly at Brandon and rose with the air of royalty. “I’ll just be a minute.”
Genevieve gave him a shoulder bump. “So smooth,” she said.
“What can I say?” he drawled. “I got a way with the ladies.”
Genevieve smothered her laughter with a coughing fit.
When Mrs. Dixon returned, she was balancing a tea tray laid out with dainty china cups, a sugar bowl, and a plate of tiny tea cakes. She set the tray on the coffee table between them. Genevieve politely took one of the cakes.
“So, that night,” Mrs. Dixon said, stirring sugar into her cup, “I happened to be standing at my kitchen window, and I saw the man walk up the drive.”
“Did you get a good look at him?” Genevieve asked, trying not to sound too eager.
“Good enough, to be sure. He was dressed just as I described to the police. All in black, with one of those knitted caps, what do you call them—?” She snapped her fingers several times.
