Blood on the Street (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery, #4)

wore sensible pumps, a camel sweater set, brown plaid skirt, and pearls. She swayed, and Dr. Jerry caught her.
    Her glasses tumbled to the floor near Wetzon, who picked them up, held them, then looked through them. Major blur.
    Dr. Jerry carried her out of the room, down a short hall and into another room. Wetzon followed with the eyeglasses. His consulting room was still more hotel French Louis, a desk, a brown leather chair, and analyst’s couch. On the wall behind the desk was an acre of framed diplomas and certificates. Jerry settled Penny Ann carefully on the chaise, straightened her clothes, and took off her shoes. She moaned. “Poor thing,” he said.
    “Her glasses.” Wetzon handed them to him.
    He set them on a side table where a Chinese porcelain lamp gave off a faint rosy light. “Thank you, Wetzon. Would you stay with her for a few minutes? I’ll get her a cup of tea.” He patted Wetzon’s shoulder and left without waiting for a reply.
    Oh, well , Wetzon thought. She walked to the windows and looked out at a clutter of office buildings. Night was falling rapidly. It was after seven. At eight, she was meeting Laura Lee at her wrecked apartment. This Louie friend of Carlos’s was going to talk to Wetzon about the renovation.
    She closed the blinds and shivered. There was a chill in the air. The figure on the chaise didn’t move. Had Penny Ann murdered Brian? She had a motive, a double, if one could accept that Tabby Ann was having an affair with him. But then, Tabitha also had a motive, and so did Rona, who also had more than one reason to wish to see her husband dead.
    Could Tabitha Ann get a gun somehow, point it at someone, and shoot him? Although she didn’t know the girl, Wetzon found it hard to believe.
    Penny Ann’s face was dead white against the brown leather of the chaise. Some people led such tragic lives, Wetzon thought. She had no right to complain about her apartment or her love life.
    In the living room Wetzon could hear Hartmann holding forth. She stood in the doorway listening. He was telling war stories, trying to impress Smith no doubt, and she could hear Smith’s phony tinkling laugh. What the hell, she and Smith had been good together just now—real teamwork. She smiled.
    Rona came down the hall and passed her. “Do you believe that shit heap of testosterone? God, I hate men.”
    “Will you be all right, Rona? I mean about what Maglia is doing with the accounts.”
    Rona’s smile was derisive. “Wetzon, I’m a survivor. Don’t you know that?” She continued down the hall and closed the bathroom door behind her.
    Wetzon slipped back into the consulting room. What was keeping Jerry? She could hear his rich rumble from the living room and Smith’s responding laugh.
    A strange sound came from the chaise. Penny Ann was trembling violently. Wetzon looked around quickly. She threw open a door. A closet full of bulging garment bags. On a shelf was a folded-up blue blanket. She stood on tiptoe and pulled the blue blanket down. A large round hatbox thudded to the floor, upside down.
    Dropping the blanket, she righted the hatbox, and as she did so, the cover came off. There was no hat. It was chock full of papers and letters. The shivering sound came again, and she hurriedly replaced the lid and shoved the box back on its shelf in the closet. She leaned over Penny Ann and covered her with the blanket from neck to foot, tucking her in.
    Penny Ann’s eyes popped open suddenly and darted back and forth around the room, coming to rest on Wetzon. “Wetzon,” she whispered. Her voice was so soft that Wetzon bent closer to hear. “I begged him to leave Tabby alone.” She clutched Wetzon’s hand through the blanket. “I said I’d kill him, and he laughed at me. He said I’d already gotten away with murder. He wanted the papers—” Wetzon bent closer, her eyes straying to the closet.
    “What papers?” Penny Ann let go of Wetzon’s hand.
    “How is she?” Dr. Jerry was standing in the doorway holding a teacup and saucer. A geyser of steam swirled up from the cup.
    Wetzon looked back at Penny Ann. Her eyes were closed.

24.
    T HE ONLY PERSON in the lobby of Wetzon’s building on West Eighty-sixth Street besides Harry, the doorman, was a real estate broker named Nancy Strohl. Nancy had owned the apartment across the hall from Wetzon, but had sold it two years earlier. Because she was so well liked, she managed to get listings in the building.
    “Hi, Leslie. I hear you