Seven Minutes to Noon

her hand over its rough surface, turning it around to study it from different angles.
    Finally Sylvie answered the phone. “I brought the children to Maggie’s apartment,” she explained. “It wascloser. I wanted to get them out of the storm. Are you mad, Alice?”
    “No, I’m not mad.”
    “Is everything okay?” There was a hardness to Sylvie’s tone, a sarcasm that Alice didn’t like. Sylvie was young; she didn’t take things seriously enough sometimes. Which was why she was a babysitter, Alice reminded herself, dispelling the rasp of irritation.
    “Yes, everything’s okay. Listen, Sylvie, you don’t have to bring them.” She wondered if she had been asking too much of Sylvie lately, piggybacking her children onto Ethan’s babysitting hours. “Mike’s on his way home. I’ll ask him to stop by and pick them up.”
    “I can hear the worry in your voice,” Sylvie said. “Don’t worry so much. It’s unattractive, my mother used to say.”
    “He’ll be there soon.” Alice wanted to end the awkward call. She wanted the traffic jam that had ensnarled Mike to break up, release him. She wanted Julius Pollack locked in a cell. She wanted to close her eyes and escape today. She wanted her children.
    “Bye, Alice,” Sylvie said with a strange cheerfulness.
    Alice pressed END and immediately called Mike’s cell.
    “Can’t talk — traffic’s moving,” he answered.
    “Pick up the kids on your way back, okay? They’re at Maggie’s, with Sylvie.”
    “Will do. You okay?”
    “Fine.” She would wait to tell him about the crime scene when he arrived.
    “See you in a few minutes,” he said. “I’m getting close.”
    She laid her head against the back of the couch and closed her eyes. Next to her, she could feel Dana pitching forward.
    “Where did you get this?”
    Alice opened her eyes to find Dana staring at the peony pillow.
    “Judy Gersten,” Alice answered. “She makes them.”
    “Them, plural?” Dana asked. “She’s made others?”
    “She does all that stuff. Needlepoint, knitting, sewing. It’s all around her house and at work on her desk. She’s says it keeps her busy. Sylvie finishes the pillows for her.”
    “What do you mean finishes them?”
    Alice was surprised by Dana’s sudden interest. “You know, backing, stuffing, all the finishing work. Then Sylvie takes them over to the Women’s Exchange to sell them.”
    “Why?” Dana sat forward, holding the pillow on her lap.
    “Just to help out, I guess,” Alice said. “Sylvie’s a part-time assistant at Garden Hill. Judy said the peony was Sylvie’s idea as a tribute to Lauren. Lauren loved peonies.”
    “So you bought this?”
    “No, Judy gave it to me. She threw it at me, actually. She said I should have it because I was Lauren’s friend.”
    Dana held the pillow up for Alice to see. “Look.”
    “I know, it’s beautiful.”
    Dana pointed at the lower left corner of the pillow. “Look.”
    Alice had never actually scrutinized the needlework; the large flower was captivating at a distance. She had come straight home with it, thrown it on her couch, headed straight for the newspaper. And then Julius decided to attack. The harder she looked at the pillow now, the more apparent it became that the background was not as simple as it appeared. There were two colors involved, not one as it first seemed, and in the corner where Dana was pointing, there was something else.
    Alice held the pillow in front of her face. In the lower left corner, in a shade slightly darker than the background, were two tiny letters: LB.

Chapter 35
    “Lauren’s initials,” Alice said. “Lauren Barnet.”
    “Where’s this Women’s Exchange place?” Dana asked. “I want to see the other pillows.”
    “But Judy said she made the pillow with Lauren in mind,” Alice said. “That’s why Lauren’s initials are there, Dana. Don’t you think?”
    “No assumptions.” Dana stood up.
    “It’s on Pierrepont Street in Brooklyn Heights,” Alice told Dana. “Between Monroe Place and Henry Street, I think.”
    Dana left the pillow where it was. “When Frannie comes, tell her I’ll be right back. And don’t go anywhere, Alice. Got it?”
    “Got it,” Alice said, picturing herself, Mike, Nell and Peter running along the phantom beach. Air dry and light as cotton wisps. A placid ocean.
    The uniformed officer by the door stood sentrylike with his hands clasped behind his back. Alice stretched out on the couch, pulled the blanket