Mortar and Murder by Jennie Bentley

were, they were keeping quiet about it. By now, there ought to have been all-points bulletins all over down east Maine, TV and radio spots, front-page newspaper stories, or at least a missing-person report filed with a police department somewhere nearby. But even the Internet was quiet. I’d stopped by the down east Maine listserv last night to see if anyone was talking about anything related, and it had been quiet as the grave. Pun intended.
    “I’m glad she’s not your sister, anyway. Did you try to call Svetlana?”
    I would have, just to make sure. Even if I knew it wasn’t my sister—a sister I don’t have; I’m an only child—I think I would have called anyway, just to hear her voice.
    A shadow passed over Irina’s face. It could just have been from one of the clouds in the sky. “I tried. She didn’t answer.”
    If Svetlana wasn’t the girl in the morgue, then surely that didn’t matter. “I’m sorry you didn’t get to talk to her. But at least that’s not her, in there.” I nodded to the building.
    Irina shook her head and muttered something in Russian. I assumed it to be the equivalent of “Thank God!”
    “How far is the real estate office from here? Do you want a ride?”
    She shook her head, the tight bun at the nape of her neck bobbing. “I’d like to walk. Smell the fresh air.” Get the smell of death out of her nose.
    “You won’t be cold?” She was just wearing the business suit with the blouse underneath, and high-heeled pumps.
    Irina shook her head. “Ukraine is cool, too. And the jacket is wool. Nice and warm.”
    I nodded. “Well, walk carefully, then. And good luck on your appointment.”
    Irina returned the good wishes as far as Derek’s and my renovations went and set off down the sidewalk in the direction of her office, her high heels clicking a rhythm against the pavement. I watched her round the nearest corner, and then I headed back inside the building.
    Dr. Lawrence had walked Wayne upstairs, and I found them both standing in the lobby, still discussing the deceased.
    “. . . for toxicology,” Dr. Lawrence was saying as I walked up. “Tomorrow, maybe longer. I’ll ask the lab to put a rush on it.”
    Wayne nodded. “I’d appreciate that. What about food?”
    “It’s all in there.” Dr. Lawrence nodded to the sheaf of papers Wayne was holding in his hand. “Dinner approximately nine hours before she died, a little chicken and rice with water to drink. Not much of either; maybe she was dieting.”
    “She didn’t look like she needed to diet,” Wayne remarked.
    I shook my head; the young woman hadn’t struck me as being overweight, either.
    “Her clothes were slightly too big,” Dr. Lawrence said. “I’d say she had perhaps lost five or ten pounds since she bought them. The tags were cut out, by the way.”
    “The tags in the clothes?”
    Dr. Lawrence nodded.
    “Interesting,” Wayne said.
    I cut in. “She was wearing Gloria Jeans. They’re a Russian brand. You can get them in New York, though.”
    Wayne’s eyebrows gyrated, and he turned back to Dr. Lawrence. “What about the shirt? Is that American made or foreign?”
    “Isn’t American made the same as foreign these days?” Dr. Lawrence didn’t wait for an answer. “I’ll go get her clothes and you can have a look. Both of you.” Her eyes glanced off mine for a second.
    “Textile designer,” I said. “Fabric is kind of my thing.”
    “That explains it. Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
    She headed down the hallway to the elevator, her rubber shoes squeaking against the polished tile floor.
    “You didn’t tell me that,” Wayne said, reproach in his voice.
    “What? About the jeans? I didn’t think about it. That was before you told me about the scrap of paper in the pocket. And it’s not like they couldn’t have been bought here, you know. Like I said, they’re available in New York.”
    “But more readily available in Russia? Or the Ukraine?”
    “Oh, sure. They’re