A faint look of annoyance changed quickly to a surprisingly warm and sincere smile when Elizabeth King opened the door. She was dressed in what Munch suspected was her version of lounging around clothes: pressed, pleated khakis, blue blouse of some fine, soft material, and brown suede slip-on shoes. She wore no jewelry, little noticeable makeup, and her hair was pulled back in a low ponytail.
"I hope I'm not disturbing you," he said, more out of politeness than sincerity.
She shook her head and motioned him in. "Of course not. You caught me on a rare night home alone. I was just sorting my pictures and too much nostalgia is not a good thing at my age." She began to lead him up the stairs.
"You're not taking me into the throne room again, are you?" he quipped amiably.
She laughed, a low, musical sound that he could have listened to all evening. Stop it Munch, he thought to himself severely. She was most definitely out of his league, or at least she would certainly think so.
"Not unless this is a professional call."
"Purely personal."
"In that case, I'm taking you into my real living room."
She lead him into a room that was more casually, but no less exquisitely, decorated than the other rooms he had seen. A large brown sofa was nearly covered with pictures and albums. A bottle of wine and half-full glass stood on the coffee table. She gestured for him to sit in the red armchair adjacent to the sofa.
"Can I get you a drink?"
"No, thanks."
She shrugged and sat. For the first time that evening, he noticed the music.
"Miles Davis?" She nodded as she sipped her wine. "I would have pegged you as more of a Mozart gal," he observed dryly.
She laughed again. "They're not so different. My husband got me into jazz." When she noticed his puzzled glance at her ring-less left hand, her mouth twisted into a half smile. "I'm a widowed divorcee of many years standing. But that's not what you came to talk about."
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "I saw you at the hospital today."
She took another sip of her wine, emptying the glass, but did not respond.
He tried another tack. "It's a lucky thing Susan has a single room."
"How did you find Susan?" she asked evenly as she poured another glass of wine.
"She's in bad shape but unusually lucid. She has a photographic memory you know."
"How fortunate."
"Yeah. I kept thinking back to what you said about her. She has real substance. And strength."
"She's certainly proved herself strong enough to survive this sort of thing before." The bitterness in her voice was, like all honest bitterness, mixed with equal parts anger and sadness. She continued sharply. "Detective, I'm not a suspect for you to cajole into confession. Ask me a question and I'll answer it honestly."
"Did you have anything to do with Susan getting a private room?"
"Neither health insurance companies nor hospital administrators are known for their generosity. When I found out what hospital she was in, I took the necessary steps."
"Expensive gift. Did your nephew ask you to do it?"
"My nephew is young, in love, and very upset. It wouldn't occur to him to ask. My mother told me that the perfect gift was not only thoughtful, but also unobtrusive. Susan and her friends won't expend much energy think about the private room since she has one, but if she didn't, she'd feel the lack of it keenly, I imagine. I trust you won't tell anyone of this, will you? It would only embarrass her and me needlessly."
He nodded. "You know, I don't think Susan's the only woman of substance I've met today."
"I'm over fifty, I have a lot of practice."
"Mrs. King, are you hungry?"
"It's Elizabeth, and yes."