A strange phrase, Lillian had thought. A lively woman.
Alive.
Not anymore. And she’d begun to cry.
Once the tears came, she didn’t try to hold them back, half crying for her mother and half hoping that by doing so she might buy some time and goodwill. He’d put a hand on her upper back, then let it move to the nape of her neck, squeezing gently. “I’m sorry to upset you,” he’d said. “But maybe there’s a way I can help.”
He’d asked her to meet him in his apartment in one month’s time, when Mrs. Watkins would be away visiting her sister. The implications were clear. Horrified, Lillian fretted about what to do.
Days before, she’d finally come out of her stupor after receiving the first of two letters from a Hollywood producer that she hoped might change everything and had finally galvanized her into action. She’d accepted the first modeling job that she could—one that her mother would never have approved of—and soon after secured the session with Mr. Rossi. The two jobs combined gave her a modicum of hope that it was only a matter of time before she’d be able to pay off her back rent. So she’d written a note to Mr. Watkins that was mildly flirtatious yet postponed the “rendezvous” until her work schedule cleared up, hoping that would appease him without getting her tossed onto the streets.
But now, if Mrs. Watkins was dead and Mr. Watkins the murderer, she might be able to live here for free until the entire mess was sorted out. Kitty would have admonished her for thinking only of herself when a woman had been killed, but she would have silently made the same assessment. A knock on the door interrupted Lillian’s thoughts. She rose to answer it.
“May I come in?” The police officer addressing her had ginger-colored hair and a matching mustache. A couple of curls slowly sprang back to life after he removed his hat and tucked it under his arm.
Once inside, the policeman cleared his throat. “The other tenants mentioned that you’re Angelica.” He glanced at Lillian’s chest and blushed. “Sorry, Miss Carter, I mean.”
A couple of years ago, a reporter had written an article about Lillian’s Grecian attributes, coveted by sculptors and artists for their classical nature and symmetry, in particular her well-formed breasts and the dimples on the small of her lower back. Renown had quickly followed, and the policeman’s reaction was typical of anyone who learned who she was, comparing the Angelica standing before them with the many creations around the city that were photographed for the article, from the barely clad Three Graces at the Hotel Astor （she portrayed all three, of course） to the golden-nippled, laurel-crowned Civic Fame at the apex of the Municipal Building.
She couldn’t help but bask in his attention a little. Especially after Mr. Rossi’s disappointed reaction earlier. “I am Angelica, yes,” she answered.
He was about to speak when an older policeman showed up in the doorway.
“I’ll take over.” The older man barely glanced her way. “Miss Angelica Carter?” He consulted a small notebook and made a check mark on it before she’d even answered.
“Yes.” She sat down at the kitchen table and placed her hands in her lap. During the course of her modeling career, having dealt with dozens of capricious artists, she’d learned to pick up small cues from the curtest of commands. This police officer wished to dominate both her and the younger man. If her mother were here （if only her mother were here）， Kitty would have done all the talking, as Lillian placated the man with a single look. She knew exactly the one. Chin down, eyes up, projecting a demure naughtiness that always worked like a charm to quash the mercurial temperament of whatever artist she was posing for.
“Is there something wrong with your neck?” the older police officer asked.
It clearly wasn’t working this time.
“I have some questions for you, Miss Carter. How well did you know Mrs. Watkins?”
They were probably asking questions of all the tenants. She would be as helpful as possible. “As well as any other tenant, I suppose. She was my landlord’s wife. They fought, often. I’m so sorry it’s come to this.”
“To what?”
“That she’s, you know, dead.”
“We haven’t released that information yet. How do you know that?”
“I saw, as I walked up the stairs,” she stammered. “The door was open. There was a hand.”
He scribbled something in his notebook.
She cocked her head, trying to see what he’d written. “Also, sir, you spoke of her in the past tense, just now. You said, ‘How well did you know Mrs. Watkins?’？”