Page 28 of Dirty Looks

“No,” she said softly. “We all loved Evie.”

“We may have more questions for you,” Martinez said, passing her his card. “And if you have any information for us you can reach me at this number. As part of the investigation we have to inform you not to leave town.”

We left her sitting at the table, staring out at the rain, and we went back into the kitchen to find Molly taking a tray of cookies out of the oven. Despite Martinez’s assurance that I was buying lunch, we were well past the lunch hour and I’d only had a singular donut to get me through the day. The sugar rush had long since passed.

Walters was still standing guard, and he was practically licking his lips. He caught my gaze and I shook my head slightly, warning him not to eat anything. I could see a little bit of life drain out of him.

“Where is the tea kept?” I asked Molly.

“In the pantry,” she said. “Ms. Kitty loves her tea. She has loose leaf in just about every flavor.”

“Astrid said she brought Mrs. Lidle chamomile tea last night,” I said. “We’re going to need to take that with us.”

She wiped her hands on a dish towel and her brows rose. “Are ye now?” And then she looked thoughtful. “And I’m guessing you’re wondering if I’ve got any of that soup left too.”

“I was wondering that,” Martinez said.

“Well it happens I do,” she said. “I was going to eat it for me own supper. Let me get you the tea.” And then she opened up a hidden panel in the cabinets and walked into a pantry large enough to host a dinner party.

“Jack’s going to be sad he missed this place,” I whispered to Martinez. “He’s got a weird fascination about pantries. Loves them. I have no idea why.”

“You don’t know why because you don’t cook,” he said. “Anyone who spends any time in a kitchen loves a well-organized pantry.”

“I’ve learned so much about you today,” I said. “I never imagined you in a kitchen.”

“I have a lot of family members in the food industry,” he said. “I worked in my fair share of kitchens when I was younger.”

“I waited tables in college,” Walters said, eyeing the cookies again. “Here’s my thought. If she takes one of those cookies and eats it then I say we have nothing to lose. I haven’t eaten lunch today.”

I liked Walters. He was homegrown and had joined the force right after high school graduation. He wasn’t the smartest guy in the room. And he wasn’t the dumbest either. He did well as a patrolman and had no ambition to rise up through the ranks. He liked taking calls and making traffic stops, and he seemed content with that lot in life.

“Get in line,” Martinez told him. “Doc’s trying to get out of buying me lunch.”

“Lies,” I said, shaking my head. “Vicious lies. You’re mean when you’re hungry.”

“Here ye are,” Molly said, coming back in with a glass container filled with tea leaves. And then she went to the subzero refrigerator and took out a container of soup, plopping it onto the counter next to the tea. “I’m tired of coffee. I’m having whiskey with my cookies. It seems like today calls for it. Bless her sweet soul.” She mopped the tears in her eyes with her apron.

I was starting to like Molly Ryan, so I hoped she wasn’t an accomplice to murder. She was obviously comfortable in the kitchen, and she took a decanter out from under the counter and she reached in her apron and took out a glass.

I raised my brows at Martinez, wondering if she always kept glasses in her apron.

There seemed to be a collective sigh of relief when Molly selected two cookies and took a bite out of one.

“Help yerselves,” she said.

Walters made his way to the cookie tray, but Martinez and I stayed where we were and decided Walters could take one for the team. He was a grown man and he could make his own life or death decisions.

“Mrs. Ryan,” Martinez said.

“Call me Molly,” she corrected. “Everyone does. I’ve been widowed for forty-one years. I don’t even remember who Mrs. Ryan is anymore. Me husband, John, was Frank Lazarus’s valet. Frank was Kitty’s father ye see. And I was Mrs. Lazarus’s personal maid. Kitty and I practically grew up together.”

“You grew up in the Lazarus household?” I asked.

“Four generations of my family have worked for the Lazarus family,” she said proudly. “Me parents, meself, and me son andgranddaughter. They both work with the horses at the stables. The Irish are horse whisperers ye know.” She took a generous drink and her eyes unfocused as she remembered things long past.

“I remember getting off the boat at four years old with me parents and coming through Ellis Island. That was just a few years before it was shut down. They had their papers and we all arrived at this grand house in New York. I thought I’d won a prize. The Lazaruses worked hard and demanded a great deal, but they’ve always been generous and good people. I got an education and I learned to work me fingers to the bone, but they paid us all well for our loyalty. And when I turned seventeen Mrs. Lazarus asked if I’d be her personal maid. Me mother was so proud I thought she’d take an advertisement in the paper.”

Molly began humming softly and poured another two fingers into her glass. “We had a few good years together, John and I, before he died. Me only twenty-four with a babe on me hip and another on the way.”

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