Free Murder Superior by Jane Haddam Page A

place. He had nothing against church—he certainly had nothing against Father Tibor’s sermons—but today…
    Today, today, today, Gregor thought. Today you’re just disgruntled because Cavanaugh Street is celebrating a holiday you have no way to celebrate. In a few minutes the street will be full of people, Cavanaugh Street regulars joined by the new immigrants who had come over since the Soviet Union’s fall, and you will be totally out of place.
    Bennis Hannaford often said that if Gregor Demarkian didn’t have a reason to take a despairingly existential view of life, he would invent one. Young Donna Moradanyan agreed with her. Donna Moradanyan had the apartment on the floor above Gregor’s in the four-story brownstone that faced Lida Arkmanian’s town house. Bennis had the apartment on the floor below him. Between the two of them, they did a better than fair job of running his life.
    Someday, something unambiguously wonderful is going to happen in your life, Gregor told himself, and then you won’t know how to behave.
    Linda Melajian was standing in the middle of Ararat’s front room, setting a table with restaurant flatware and frowning at the way the yellow linen napkins were folded. The napkins were yellow because they went well with Armenia’s new flag, a copy of which was displayed along the side wall in a frame of flowers that always looked so fresh, somebody must have been changing them daily. Gregor reminded himself that old Deena Melajian had fled the Communist invasion in 1946 and then wondered how Linda thought she was going to get away with having skipped church just to set up for the Mother’s Day crowd. Everyone who came in this afternoon was going to ask her why she couldn’t make time for God.
    Gregor tapped on the window. Linda looked up and waved. Gregor went on down the street. The tall front doors of Holy Trinity Church were propped open. Howard Kashinian must have come out while Gregor was watching Linda in the Ararat. Gregor speeded up his steps. It was a good thing he had someplace to go today. It would take his mind off all this hyperbolic celebration of motherhood. It would stop him from wondering what it was all these people thought he was up to—which was a question he often asked about Cavanaugh Street without getting any kind of sensible answer. Gregor didn’t even think he’d mind spending the day surrounded by nuns. In Gregor’s private cosmology, convents and Cavanaugh Street went together in ways mysterious and divine. They were both largely populated by women with a mission.
    Donna Moradanyan’s mission was to decorate as much as possible with as little excuse as possible. To that end, she had decorated the front of the brownstone where her apartment and Gregor’s were with bright yellow and blue satin ribbons, bright yellow and blue satin bows, and white chiffon hearts sewn into ruffles so enthusiastic they almost seemed alive. Just how Donna Moradanyan had managed to do this, Gregor did not know. It couldn’t have been easy getting those ribbons up close to the roof like that. It had to have been nearly impossible to plant that chiffon heart—the one the size of an overgrown twelve-year-old-boy—right in the center of the stones between the third and fourth floors. Did Donna fly? Did she care what having a house that looked like this did to the dignity of her neighbors?
    Donna Moradanyan thought Gregor Demarkian had too much dignity, and he knew it.
    Over at Holy Trinity, there were rumblings and hiccups. The congregation was beginning to emerge. Gregor hurried up his front steps, determinedly ignoring the gigantic M woven out of blue and yellow ribbons that covered the front door. Then he let himself into the foyer and looked around. Since it was Sunday, there was no mail. Since it was a holiday, there was no old George Tekemanian in the first floor apartment—old George would be spending the day with his grandson Martin and his great-grandchildren. Gregor headed