“Closed? A Thursday? April second?”
She nodded. “Yes. April second. That’s why. That’s the date Mr. McNair’s wife died.”
“Indeed. And his daughter born?”
She nodded again. “He... he always closes up.”
“And visits the cemetery?”
“Oh, no. His wife died in Europe, in Paris. Mr. McNair is a Scotsman. He only came to this country about twelve years ago, a little after mother and I came.”
“Then you spent part of your childhood in Europe?”
“Most of it. The first eight years. I was born in Paris, but my father and mother were both Americans.” She tilted up her chin. “I’m an American girl.”
“You look it.” Fritz brought more beer, and Wolfe poured some. “And after twenty years Mr. McNair still shuts up shop on April second in memory of his wife. A steadfast man. Of course, he lost his daughter also — when she was two, I believe you said — which completed his loss. Still he goes on dressing women... well. Then you won’t be there tomorrow.”
“No, but I’ll be with Mr. McNair. I... do that for him. He asked it a long time ago, and mother let me, and I always do it. I’m almost exactly the same age his daughter was. Of course I don’t remember her, I was too young.”