Corpus Christmas

“Shambley didn’t reappear?”

“He did not.”

“And then?”

“And then?” he mimicked. “You wish to know what happened after we left the Breul House?”

“You had words with Dr. Shambley, laid hands on him, almost hit him,” Sigrid said calmly. “A few hours later, he was dead. You may not want to answer without a lawyer-”

“Lawyers!” Thorvaldsen snorted scornfully.

“-but I have to ask you to account for those hours up until, say, one a.m.”

“Eight-thirty till one a.m.,” he repeated slowly.

“Yes.”

“We had di

His blue eyes were sardonic. “You have a most unprofessional look on your face, frøken Harald. You are surprised to hear that she went back to her hotel alone?”

“Not at all,” Sigrid lied. “You and Lady Francesca parted at what time?”

“Ten-fifteen, ten-thirty. I didn’t look at my watch.”

“And then?”

“I worked until midnight, went to my apartment on the top floor, had a drink, and went to bed. Alone.”

“Is there anyone who can confirm that? Miss Kristensen, perhaps?”

“Not even Miss Kristensen is that dedicated.”

“What about a night watchman or a cleaning person?”

He shook his head and his fair hair was like old mellow gold in the lamplight of this golden stateroom. “Sorry. There’s only my word.”

“Your word?” Her eyes were skeptical chips of gray slate as she lifted them to his.

“You’re an odd woman,” he said, standing abruptly. He stretched out his hand to her. “Come, please.”

Puzzled, Sigrid stood up.

He pointed toward the glass.

Out in the cha

“In the glass,” Thorvaldsen murmured and Sigrid saw themselves reflected as in a dark mirror.

“It did not surprise me that Oscar had taken Francesca,” he said thickly. “But you-!”

He tried to pull her to him.

“Mr. Thorvaldsen-”

“Oscar Nauman is a man of fire. You can’t be as cold as you look.”

He put his arms around her as if to kiss her.

“Are you crazy? Stop it!” she cried and, when he didn’t release her, kicked him in the shins. Hard.

As Thorvaldsen tightened his hold, Sigrid’s police training shifted into automatic. She abruptly relaxed, leaned into him, and a moment later, sent the Dane crashing to the floor.

Instinctively, her hand went to the handle of the.38 holstered in a shoulder harness beneath her jacket as she waited to see how Thorvaldsen would react.

At that moment a voice behind her said, “Is this a private game or can anybody play?”

Sigrid released the gun handle, took a deep breath, and slowly turned. “Hello, Lady Francesca.”

Francesca Leeds closed the door behind her and looked from Sigrid, breathing hard in the middle of the room, to Søren Thorvaldsen, now sitting on the floor and rubbing his left eye where it had banged against the low table. Her smile was tentative as she said, “I’m sure there’s some perfectly rational explanation for what’s happened here.”

“Not really,” said Sigrid. “Mr. Thorvaldsen was a bit uncertain about a woman’s ability to defend herself and I’m afraid he goaded me into a demonstration. Quite unprofessional of me. I apologize, Mr. Thorvaldsen.”

She had expected him to be sullen. Instead, he came to his feet with an easy smile and a shrug.

“No apologies, frøken Harald. You showed me what I wished to know.” He greeted the elegant redhead with a kiss on her cool cheek. “You see, Lsøde ven? I’m still an Ålborg roughneck.”

Not fully convinced, but willing to let it pass, Francesca threw her mink coat over a nearby chair, added her gloves to the heap, and headed for the bar. “I feel as if I’m two drinks behind. Fix anyone else something?”

“Not for me,” Sigrid murmured.

“Just an ice cube,” Thorvaldsen said ruefully, as his fingers examined the lump swelling beneath his eye. “You come in time to rescue me, Francesca. I’m being grilled about Dr. Shambley.”

Francesca paused with a decanter of Irish whiskey in her graceful hands. “Should I be leaving then, Sigrid?”

“Why?” asked Thorvaldsen.

Sigrid stood. “Perhaps it would be better if you both came to my office tomorrow and made formal statements.”

“Me?” Francesca seemed surprised. “Why on earth would you need a statement from me? I barely knew the man.”

“But you have a key to the Breul House, don’t you?” asked Sigrid.

“Well, yes, but- Oh, don’t be daft, Sigrid! He was a grotty little man but you can’t think I went back there last night and sneaked in and killed him?”

“Can you tell me where you were between eight-thirty and one A.M.?” Sigrid asked bluntly.

“To be sure, I can,” she said in her Celtic lilt. She brought Thorvaldsen an ice cube wrapped in a napkin and sat down with her drink at the other end of the couch from Sigrid. “Søren and I finished di

Sigrid jotted down the names and numbers, then asked, “What about your key to the Breul House? Do you carry it with you?”

“On my key ring, yes,” said Francesca. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to see it.”

She moved so beautifully, Sigrid thought, watching as the other woman crossed to her fur coat. Tonight she wore a dark brown taffeta dress edged with a stiff, narrow self-ruffle at the neck and wrists, shot with gold threads that gleamed with every swing of the skirt. Her lustrous hair fell in copper tangles about the perfect oval of her face.

Even as Sigrid went through the formalities of this interview with one level of her mind, another level catalogued Francesca’s almost flawless beauty. Thorvaldsen’s advances had been clumsy and insulting and she should have decked him harder, but she could almost sympathize with his basic confusion. How could Oscar Nauman possibly be attracted to her when he’d had one of the most beautiful women in New York?

Last night she had meant it when she told Nauman she wasn’t jealous of the women he’d known before her. Tonight, on this ship, she found herself wondering who had initiated their split-Francesca or Nauman?

Francesca Leeds dug into one of the deep pockets and came out with a handful of keys. She detached one and handed it to Sigrid. It was tagged EBH.

“I’d like to keep this for now,” Sigrid said, wrapping it in a clean sheet of notepaper. She quickly wrote out a receipt for it. “One more question: do you know why Roger Shambley was killed?”

The copper-haired woman resumed her place on the couch and her brown eyes regarded Sigrid humorously. “Because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut?”

Sigrid looked up inquiringly.

Francesca shrugged. “I only know what I’ve heard.”

“Which is-?”

“Word around art circles is that Roger Shambley liked to know things. He listened and he heard and he was a bloody genius with insinuations. People often thought he knew more than he did, but by the time they realized he didn’t, it was too late because they’d already let too much slip.” She looked into her glass and laughed. “Does that make any sense?”

“He was a røven af fjerde division,” Thorvaldsen growled, the ice cube still held to his eye.

“That, too, if it means what I think it does,” Francesca nodded. “He liked to know unpleasant things about you and then rub your nose in it.” She tilted her glass to her lips and drank the rest of her undiluted whiskey. “Or so I’ve been told.”