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Greta nodded. “Big job. Usually takes two.”
“I know, but call me if he doesn’t show, okay? I’ll get on them. Kris Kringle’s Christmas Lights is kind of flaky. Last year, they didn’t come until mid-December.”
“No one wants to climb up to the roof.”
“Do you blame them?”
“No, but Santa and his reindeer have been mounted by the chimney for fifty years, and as long as I’m alive, the children in this neighborhood will see them. Duncan always insisted upon it, and I’m carrying on the tradition.”
“I know.” Remmi had heard this same story every year since she’d moved in. “But if they don’t come, text me or call me. Okay?”
Before she could answer, Beverly, a little breathless, poked her head through the archway from the back corridor and said, “I’ll get the paper! I think it’s here.” Before anyone could answer, she hurried outside to the front stoop. Remmi heard the door open and close just as the toaster oven dinged. Careful not to burn her fingers, she slid the hot bagel halves onto a plate as Beverly returned.
“Here ya go!” Beverly dropped the folded paper onto the table next to Greta just as the sound of the dryer buzzer emanated from the basement again. “Duty calls,” she said, then turned to Greta. “Have you ever thought of fixing the dumbwaiter? I’d be less likely to trip carrying up the laundry.”
“Nothing wrong with it,” the older woman stated.
“What? Why don’t we use it, then?” Beverly asked.
“Well, I don’t really remember.” Greta thought for a second. “It’s creaky, and I’m not sure the ropes are still strong, but it has to be filthy and filled with cobwebs, dust and spiders, mice . . . maybe even rats.” She gave a little shudder and, as Beverly was still staring at her, added, “I suppose it could handle something not too heavy. But you might want to clean it before you give it a try.”
“I will,” Beverly said, just as the dryer squawked again. “I’ll be right back. With the laundry. Poached egg day, si?”
“Si. And a muffin, er, mollete,” Greta said. “Or is it magdalena? I get them confused. But yes, please.” She kept to a strict morning schedule and wouldn’t eat until she’d had two cups of coffee and finished the puzzle. Three days a week, she ate a poached egg and a muffin, on the other days oatmeal with fruit. It never changed
, not even for holidays.
“Bueno!” Beverly was off again, nearly tripping over Turtles, who trotted across the tile floor to duck under the table and rub her mottled, furry back against Greta’s leg.
“She hasn’t improved much, you know,” Greta remarked.
Remmi was slathering peanut butter on one half of the bagel when Greta snapped the paper open. “Who?”
“Beverly. Her Spanish, such as it is, wouldn’t get her as far as Tijuana. And she’s been at it for months. If she’s really serious, she should take a class at . . .” Her voice faded away for a second and then, “Uh-oh.”
“What?”
“I think you’d better take a look at this.”
Remmi dropped the bagel onto a small plate and turned to see the front page lying open on the table. The first headline that caught her attention was:
Suicide Victim Identified
Leaper Said to Be Dressed as 1950s Icon
Heart in her throat, she skimmed the article about the identity of the dead woman. “Who’s Karen Upgarde?” she asked, rereading the few paragraphs more carefully.
“I”m sure I don’t know.”
“I’ve never heard of her.”
“We are bound to find out a lot more about her,” Greta said. “It’ll be all over the news, at least for a couple of days, until something more dreadful or sensational or scandalous or whatever comes along.”
Remmi tried to read between the lines, but the article was short, straightforward, and didn’t give a lot of details. “The police didn’t call me.”
“Why would they?”
“Because I’m involved. Didi is my mother. This woman was dressed like her, not some ‘1950s icon,’ meaning Marilyn Monroe, for God’s sake.”
