The Art of Detection by Laurie R. King

perhaps?”
    “I can tell you he hasn’t had one of his fancy-dress parties in a while.”
    “How can you tell, if you work evenings?”
    “Because when he has one, his friends all drive here and they take up all the parking places until late, so everyone who lives here has to look elsewhere.”
    “And some of you resent this?”
    “Some of them do. Tell you the truth, I was never here for his parties, and when I did come home, all those people leaving late meant I always found a place right close. The only good thing about Mr. Gilbert, you ask me.”
    Tell you the truth generally flagged an oncoming lie, but in this case, Kate suspected that the woman did in fact appreciate the convenience. Which meant that her previous cut-off statement, It wasn’t my idea, was also true.
    “Who gave you the petition to circulate, Mrs. Murray?”
    But that was one step too far for the night nurse. She drew herself up, fixed Kate with a glare, and replied, “It was my petition, I already told you that, and I won’t have you harassing me. If you want to talk to me further, you’ll have to arrange it with my lawyer.”
    And with that, she shut the door.
    That wasn’t how it worked, and the woman probably didn’t have a lawyer, but Kate was well used to indignant witnesses, and she retreated without a second thought.
    The chronic parking problem of areas like this, with single-family homes built at a time when a car was a luxury and now divided into three or four apartments, each with its car, meant that people came to blows over a patch of curb. Maybe Gilbert had been shifting his car in his pajamas when an irate neighbor came out to object and things got out of hand…. But Kate rejected the scenario as soon as it appeared in her mind: Somebody would have noticed a violent shouting match on the street.
    She silently thanked Mrs. Murray and, having completed the circuit of their victim’s neighbors, went to sit on the steps of the Gilbert house. Sure enough, the lace curtains on the house across the way twitched slightly, and she smiled to herself as she took out her phone and the Post-it the dancer had given her for Gilbert’s possibly Russian housecleaner.
    Nika’s last name proved to be Kilanovitch, emphasis on the o, and her English was somewhat better than Kate had feared. Kilanovitch was saddened to hear of her employer’s death, and it sounded to Kate as if the concern over lost income might actually be the secondary concern.
    “I afraid something happen, when he not there and I come to clean. I not have key—I only have key when he there, he give me one if he going out, so if door shut on me I not lock out. Is clear, what I say?”
    “When you were there and Mr. Gilbert had to go out, he lent you a key in case the door swung shut and locked you out. What day was it that you came to clean and he wasn’t there?”
    “Thursday. Three day ago. I wait in car, half hour, forty minute, but he not come, I go. I say to husband, maybe should I call police? But he say no, say I should go again maybe Monday and then call. Should have called. He not lying there, when I knock?”
    Her voice was so apprehensive that Kate hastened to reassure her.
    “Oh, no, don’t worry, he died somewhere else.”
    Kilanovitch had worked for Gilbert for seven years, coming once a week all year except for the period between Christmas and New Year’s. Certain tasks were weekly, others—wiping down woodwork, cleaning the windows—were done on rotation throughout the month.
    “He was nice man, spend too much time on silly games, but he laugh when I say he need wife, ask me if I want to divorce and marry him. Only joke, you know? Never rude to me, never…” Her English deserted her, and she put in a Russian word. Kate figured she was trying to say that Gilbert had never hit on her, and made understanding noises. “I clean, part of silly games. Want me not use vacuum, not if he home, I say okay, you boss. And also want me use, how say?”