Celeste shook her head. “I’m sorry, I don’t. While I’m familiar with most of the tenants in the building, in truth, I had no idea who owned this apartment, only that it’s been unoccupied since I started.”

On impulse, Lia jammed the packet of paper under her arm and unzipped her portfolio bag. From inside, she withdrew a small painting, about the size of a legal document. It was a vivid, if somewhat clumsy, painting of a manor house surrounded by clumps of emerald trees and silhouetted against a cobalt sky. Along with the key to this apartment, the painting had been the only other thing her grandmother had specifically left her.

“What about the name Seymour? William Seymour? Does that sound familiar?” Lia asked, holding the painting toward Celeste.

Celeste shook her head again. “No. May I ask who he was?”

“No clue. Other than the artist who signed this painting.”

“Oh.” Celeste looked intrigued. “Were you thinking that he was once a tenant here?”

“I have no idea.” Lia sighed, sliding the little painting back into her bag. She hadn’t really expected an answer but she had nothing to lose by asking.

“I can check the building’s records for you if you like,” Celeste offered. “We have archives going back a lot of years. If a William Seymour lived here at one point in time, I might be able to find out.”

Lia was touched by the kindness of the offer. “No, that’s all right.” She didn’t want to waste this woman’s time. At least until she had done a little research of her own.

“Sure. But if you reconsider, just let me know.”

“Thank you. I will.”

Celeste seemed to hesitate. “Are you planning to live here?” she finally asked.

Lia opened her mouth to answer and then closed it. The simple answer was yes, at least temporarily. But beyond temporarily? Lia had no simple answer for that.

“None of my business.” The woman ducked her head. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Lia smiled. “I haven’t made a decision yet.”

“I hope you stay,” Celeste said sincerely. “It would be nice to have—”

The sound of a lock being released, accompanied by a brief torrent of hysterical barking, made Lia turn. An elderly woman emerged from the apartment across the landing and shuffled toward her. A small bundle of writhing white fur was clamped under one arm, a pointy cane clutched in her other hand. She was dressed like a model from a midcentury American advert peddling soap or vacuums, in a wide-skirted floral dress with a pinched waist and a string of heavy pearls at her throat. Her white hair was curled around a liberally powdered face, her lipstick an angry crimson. Color had bled into the deep lines that tracked outward from her lips, and the whole effect was rather macabre. Unbidden, Aurelia could almost hear Grandmère tsk in disapproval.