Festive in Death (19 page)

“That’s the short of it,” she agreed. “The long’s got more gray areas. She’s desperate to be a Broadway star. Came to New York for those bright lights, and ended up working at a strip joint.”

“All too common, isn’t it?”

“Says she just danced—no sex—and you have to believe her. Not just that open face, the way she just babbles out reams of information because she’s lonely, but her background data finishes the picture. Copley’s set her up there with the usual bullshit. His wife doesn’t
understand him, treats him bad, he’s working on a divorce, then they’ll get married.”

“You’re saying they grow them green in Shipshewana.”

“If Felicity’s an example, they don’t grow them greener. And, meanwhile, Copley will invest in her future by paying for dance and voice and acting classes. And she sleeps with him whenever he’s available, fawns over him, makes him feel desirable and important. She thinks he’s out of town right now, on important business.”

“Did you tell her otherwise?”

“Not directly. She wouldn’t have bought it from me anyway. I sort of put a couple thoughts out there, and steered her toward talking to her stripper friend who seems to know the score. She took me for a pal of his, was pitifully grateful to meet what she took as a pal of his, to spend time, to talk about him because—she says—she’s not really supposed to talk about him or them. Fucker. She’s going to have a few scars from this. Still, maybe they’ll be good for her in the long run.”

“And Ziegler?”

“She didn’t recognize the name. She doesn’t know anything on that. Copley tells her what works for him, and that’s it. But what it told me? She’s young, sexy, and built like every straight man’s wet dream.”

“Is that so. Have you a photo?”

“Pervert,” she said mildly.

“Perhaps, but as a straight man I could verify your findings.”

“My findings tell me he wants to keep his sexy toy as long as he can. He gets sex, adoration, and devotion, and since he’s paying for it out of money he’s skimmed from his wife, it’s a full win for him. One he might have killed for if Ziegler found out, threatened to clue in the wife.”

“So you managed to cross a name off your suspect list with the
young Broadway hopeful, and gain another area of motive for one of the top on your list. Not a bad bit of work in a short time.”

“I had Peabody do the run on her, so that saved me time. Data indicates the kid came from a solid, two-parent household, has two older sisters, played well in school. Why do they call it ‘homecoming’?” she wondered.

“Who calls what ‘homecoming’?”

“People—the thing in high school.”

“Ah.” He paused by a side door of the house. “That’s an American thing, isn’t it?”

“You live here,” she reminded him.

“I do, yes. I think it’s something to do with football. American football, and a particular game that gets specifically celebrated with a dance, perhaps a parade as well. And they choose students to be king and queen.”

“That’s just weird. But she was one of those, and head cheerleader, leads in plays, part-time work at some fast-food joint until she came here. A few months working in a strip club should’ve scraped some of the green off. It didn’t. I think it goes down to the bone.”

“You liked her quite a lot,” he said as they went inside.

“I don’t know if it was like, but I hope somebody can cushion the fall when she finds out the truth about Copley.”

“A solid family, older sisters. That could provide the cushion.”

“I guess it could. Either way, my job is to drill Copley. She’s going to tell him I was there.” Considering it, Eve stepped into the elevator with Roarke. “The next time he tags her up, she’ll tell him. That’s going to chap his ass. How did I find out about her—was it something Ziegler had documented, which reminds me to check Ziegler’s spreadsheet on his side businesses. He’s going to want to know
exactly what Felicity told me, and if he’s not smart and careful how he does that, he’s going to have even ridiculously gullible her wondering what the hell. Unless her stripper pal does that first.”

She stepped out with him into her home office. “What are we doing in here?”

“You won’t need your coat, nor I mine.” He took hers, then his own to a small closet she never thought about much less used. “And you’ll want a bit more time to update your board, check that spreadsheet.”

“It won’t take long.”

“Again, you don’t answer to me on this.”

Her shoulders hunched. “I’m not talking to Summerset again. I’m back. I’ll be up there, on the battlefield in like fifteen minutes.”

“I’m sure I’ll see you at some point during the fray.” He took her shoulders, yanked her in for a hard, quick kiss. “Secure your weapon, would you, Lieutenant, before you join in? Otherwise you may be tempted to use it before we’re done.”

“I’d keep it on low stun.”

“Regardless.” He kissed her again. “If you run much over the fifteen,” he said as he started out, “Summerset will have something to hold over your head for years.”

“Crap.” That was so true.

She went straight to her board. She added Felicity’s photo, some basic data, crossed it with Copley’s. Then after a moment’s thought, with Natasha Quigley’s, with a question mark.

She couldn’t be sure the wife didn’t know about the side piece.

Stepping back, she studied it.

Of all the players, Felicity and Sima struck her as the most naive and vulnerable. Though Sima not as much as Felicity. Then again,
Eve figured no one over the age of four could equal Felicity’s level of naivete.

Still, wasn’t it interesting that Ziegler and Copley—victim and potential killer—both hit on the naive and trusting? Copley paid the freight—or more accurately his wife (whether or not she knew of the arrangement) paid the freight for living quarters, expenses. Ziegler had exploited Sima’s desire for a hot boyfriend so she paid most of the freight.

But they’d both manipulated women to get what they wanted.

Ziegler made a habit out of manipulating and exploiting, she thought as she circled the board.

Had Copley?

Maybe another pass at his financials would tell her, but for that she’d have a smoother path with Roarke. Plus, she just didn’t have the time right now.

But she could squeak out a little for the spreadsheet.

At her desk, she brought it up, scrolled through looking for Copley’s initials.

She highlighted them, transferred the payments and dates to her board.

She found other sets of initials with different amounts, but nothing else as consistent over the past six weeks—which corresponded to the new locks on the vic’s employee locker.

Records and payments for
NQ
(Natasha Quigley),
MQS
(Martella),
KR
(Kira Robbins), all jibed with their statements. These, too, she added to her board.

There were plenty of others, he’d had a hell of a sideline. Those she could cross with clients already interviewed also jibed. Extortion in some cases, or straight money for sex in most of the others.

Sex and money, two of the top motives for murder. She could
ascribe both to Copley, add in fear of exposure, which would likely lead to loss of money when the wife booted him.

And wouldn’t she?

Going through a rough patch, trying to save the marriage. Quigley had all but begged her not to tell Copley about the sexual arrangement she’d had with Ziegler.

She backtracked to her notes on that interview, refreshed her memory.

Quigley stated if Copley knew she’d been sexually involved with Ziegler he would end the marriage. Because he wouldn’t tolerate the cheating, Eve assumed.

But what if Quigley had copped to Copley’s arrangement with the sexy young thing, had used that knowledge to pressure Copley into fixing the marriage—or losing the big house, the big income, the status? It wouldn’t do for him to get wind she’d been playing around on the side right along with him. She’d lose her leverage.

She gives Copley the ultimatum. He decides Ziegler double-crossed him. Kills Ziegler. Fit of passion and temper, followed by the flourish. Merry Christmas, fucker.

Goes home, parties, tells the wife he’ll break it off, they’ll go on a trip. Has to tell sexy young thing he’s been called out of town, give it all a chance to cool down.

He’d have to break it off with Felicity, or convince Quigley he had. With Ziegler out of the picture, he’d have a better chance of keeping things status quo if he played penitent with the wife.

Another round with Quigley, Eve decided. Drop Felicity’s name, get a reaction. Ruin a marriage, most likely, she thought, but one that was built on a pile of lies and betrayals anyway. Likely topple it on that shaky pile, but potentially bag a murderer.

Something to think about.

“But not now, damn it.”

Seeing her time was more than up, she shut down, hurried from the room.

Hurried back, muttering curses as she stripped off her weapon harness. She secured it in her desk drawer, secured the office doors for good measure. Then bolted in the direction of the ballroom to face the music.

•   •   •

I
t was a war, she realized when she pulled up at the open ballroom doors. Just as chaotic, just as fraught, just as noisy.

Some shouted or snapped out orders or directions like commanders to the foot soldiers who hauled, carried or clashed. Some stood on towering ladders that made her stomach jitter.

People of all sizes, shapes, colors swarmed the enormous room, trudged or scurried in and out of the open terrace doors where more of them swarmed.

The trees recently brought in stood in each corner, celebrational giants now outfitted or being outfitted with lights, gold beads, red berries, and long drops of crystal. Under one, someone arranged boxes wrapped in red paper with gold bows, gold paper with red bows, as meticulously as if placing explosives.

She saw what appeared to be miles of tiny white lights, acres of greenery, pounds of berries, and enough crystals to blind the sun.

That didn’t count wreaths, filmy drapery, plants, or flowers.

She thought about running away, dealing with Summerset’s righteous wrath. It could be worth it.

She actually took one testing step in retreat.

“Mrs. Roarke!”

A woman burst through the swarm. She waved a tablet, streaked across the crowded floor on glittery airboots. What looked like a couple sets of painted chopsticks stuck out and up from her messily bundled hair.

No retreat, Eve ordered herself. No surrender.

“Dallas. Lieutenant Dallas.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Pardon me, I’m just a little frantic. Ha. Ha. Ha.”

She actually laughed like that. In three, distinct
Ha
’s.

“We worked with each other before.” She stuck out her hand, gave Eve’s a solid pump. “I’m Omega.”

“That’s a name?”

“Ha ha ha. Yes, indeed. I’m the head designer. I realize you and I didn’t have a chance to go over the decor and details for this evening’s event, but Roarke did sign off on the design.”

“Okay.”

“Naturally there are always a few tweaks on-site, particularly when coordinating with other vendors. And while the florist has done an amazing job . . .”

She turned, aimed a look at another woman jabbing fingers in the air while a couple of guys hauled around a big gold urn with enormous red and white flowers. The look didn’t speak of admiration.

“An amazing job,” she continued, “there are some adjustments we need to make.”

“Okay.”

“I just need to go over a few points with you, and address a few questions. All of us, of course, want tonight’s event to be absolutely perfect.”

“Right. Okay.” Eve braced herself, thought: Ready. Aim. “Fire away.”

•   •   •

W
ithin ten minutes, with her head throbbing, she admitted Roarke had been right to tell her to leave her weapon in her office.

Really, she would have done a service for all mankind to stun the decorator and the florist.

Within thirty, she considered going back, getting the weapon and taking them both out.

They complimented each other with icy smiles and words like
brilliant
,
beautiful
,
bountiful
. Then jabbed at each other with sharp little insults.

The urns were too gold a gold. The tulle was too fussy.

The florist claimed her measurements were precise. The designer disagreed—hers were. And as far as Eve could tell there were bare inches between.

“I need that space for my poinsettia snowflakes,” the florist, who introduced herself as Bower (seriously), insisted. “They’ve been created specifically and exclusively for this event.”

“As you can clearly see on
my
design, that space is required for the gift table, and you are to provide for that table—per my notes—gold mini trees, red amaryllis, and white flameless candles.”

“We discussed this design change, Omega.”

“I don’t recall that, Bower.”

“We absolutely—”

“What gift table?” Eve demanded, and stopped both women from snarling.

“The holiday gifts for your guests,” Omega told her. “A gold bag for the ladies will contain a limited edition bottle of the new fragrance, Snow Queen—not on the market until February. A red bag
for the gentlemen will contain a portable bar set in a custom-made case. At last count, the number of guests—”

“I don’t want to know.” Eve waved that away. “We can put the gift bags in one of the other rooms out there.”

“But . . . Well, I don’t want to insult your guests, of course, but if the gifts are placed elsewhere some might, mistakenly, of course, take more than their share. Or some of the staff might help themselves.”

“If we’re giving stuff away, what do we care? There’s that salon place out there—we get spillover in there when we have these deals. Just set up the gifts in there, do the snowflake thing in here. Problem solved. Next?”

“I’d have to see the salon area,” Omega insisted. “In order to display the gifts to the best advantage I may need to make further adjustments, add some decorations to that space.”

“Help yourself. That way.” Eve pointed. “Hang a left. You want to add tinsel or lights or whatever, fine by me.”