Celebrity in Death (4 page)

In the bedroom, she stripped off her jacket, her weapon harness. And scowled at the house ’link. “You think I don’t know how to take a damn shower and slap on some face junk?” she demanded of the cat, who’d followed her up. “I’ve done it before.”

More in the last couple years, she judged, than in most of the years before combined. But still.

But the cat stared at her with his bicolored eyes. She hissed, stomped to the ’link, and called up the message.

Just do what I tell you and you’ll be good to go. I’ll know if you screw this up, so don’t. Now, start with a long, steamy shower and the pomegranate scrub.

As Trina’s voice droned on and on, Eve sat on the side of the bed. There were a zillion steps, she calculated. Nobody in their right mind took all those steps just to clean up for a party.

And who the hell would know whether or not she scrubbed with pomegranate?

Trina might, she thought.

Anyway, a long, steamy shower sounded fine. No problem.

By the time she’d finished the shower, the scrub, the body lotion, the face brightener, and the hair product that looked and felt a little too much like snot to suit her, she gave murder a more in-depth consideration.

She smeared stuff on her eyes, brushed stuff on her cheeks, smeared dye on her lips, and cursed whoever had invented facial enhancements.

Enough was enough, she decided, and walked back into the bedroom just as Roarke walked in.

How come he didn’t need all the fuss and gunk to look so damn pretty? she wondered. Nothing Trina could come up with could improve on that face—that carved-by-benevolent-angels face, and the wickedly blue eyes, the perfectly etched mouth that smiled now as he saw her.

“There you are.”

“How can you tell it’s me? I’ve got so much crap on my face I could be anybody under it.”

“Let’s see.” He stepped over, laid his lips on hers. “There you are,” he said again with that whisper of Ireland in his voice. “My Eve.”

“I don’t feel like your Eve, or mine either. Why can’t I just go around with my regular face?”

“Darling, it’s very much your face. Just partied up a bit. Sexy. And you smell the same.”

“It’s pomegranate, and some other stuff Trina ordered me to use. Why do I let her push me around?”

“I can’t say.” And wouldn’t. “How did it go at the studio?”

“It’s weird, but Durn’s okay. We didn’t stay the whole time because we caught a case.”

“Oh?”

“Caught and closed.”

He grinned. “And I feel I have to say I’m sorry it went so well. Why don’t you tell me about Marlo Durn and the others while I shower?”

“You probably know some of them. You’ve bumped elbows, and more, with the Hollywood crowd.”

“Hmm” was his non-answer as he undressed. “In any case I haven’t
bumped anything with Marlo Durn, which should be a relief to all of us as I’ve seen some of the media coverage of her. She could pass for your sister at this point.”

“I guess. And it’s weird.” Hands in the pockets of her robe, she leaned against the door and watched his most excellent ass head for the shower. “The one playing Peabody’s a bitch.”

“Rumor has it,” he called out over the pulse of water. “And also that there’s no love lost between her and Durn. Should be an interesting evening.”

“Maybe they’ll punch each other.” Eve felt her enthusiasm click up a notch at the idea. “That would be fun.”

“We can only hope.”

“The sets are spooky,” she continued. “All that was missing from the bullpen were crumbs on Jenkinson’s desk. That and the smell, but it takes years of cop to get that smell.”

When he stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around his waist, she frowned. “That’s it? That’s all you have to do? It’s not right.”

“Some of it should be offset by the fact you’re not required to shave your face.”

“I don’t think that’s enough.”

She stalked over to the closet, opened it. And scowled again.

“What am I supposed to wear? There are too many choices in here. If you’ve got one thing, you don’t have to think about it. You just take it out, put it on. This is too complicated. Peabody hounded me about this until I wanted to pull her tongue out and wrap it around her neck. Between her and Trina my brain’s fried.”

Amused, he walked over, stepped into the closet. “This.” He lifted a dress off the rod.

Short, she noted, with a kind of drape to the skirt from where it was caught at the side of the waist with a flower of the same material and
color as the dress. Not really blue, not really green, with a kind of shimmery overcast. She eyed it, the wide scoop of neck, the thumb-width straps.

“How do you know this one?”

“The little black dress is a classic for a reason, but often expected—especially in New York. So you’ll go with color, rich color in a soft sheen. It’s feminine without fuss, sexy without trying to be.”

She took it, turned it around, and lifted an eyebrow at the deep plunge in the back. “Without trying.”

“Very hard. You have shoes to match.”

“I do?”

“You do, yes, and go with diamonds. Leave the color to the dress.”

“Which diamonds? Do you know how many you give me? Why do you do that?”

The aggrieved sound of her voice amused him nearly as much as giving her diamonds. “It’s a sickness. I’ll get them for you once you’re dressed.”

She said nothing, and stood where she was as he selected a dark suit from his forest of suits, a slate-colored shirt, and a stone-colored tie.

“How come you don’t wear color?”

“The better to serve as the backdrop for my beautiful wife.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You had that one ready.”

“The truth is always ready.”

She jabbed a finger at him. “That one, too.”

“Such a cynic.” He gave her a pat on the ass as he passed. She could have found more to say, cynic-wise, but decided to save it. By the time she’d dressed, apologized in advance to her feet, and trapped them in the ice-pick heels, transferred her weapon and badge and communicator to one of the useless bags women were forced to carry to evening events, Roarke had the diamonds laid out.

“All of that?”

“All of that, yes,” he said firmly as he finished his tie.

“You could buy New Jersey for all of that.”

“I’d rather see them on my wife than buy New Jersey.”

“They’ll see me from space,” she muttered as she plugged in the glittery drop earrings, clamped on the bracelet, the fancy wrist unit.

“No, not like that,” he said as she fought with the clasp on the triple-strand necklace. “This way.” He adjusted the chains so they draped front and back.

She started to make a comment about shoulder-blade jewelry, but when she turned for a look had to admit it looked damned snappy.

“The evenings are cooling off.” He handed her a short, translucent coat. Over the dress it looked like a thin film of stars.

“Did I already have this?”

“You have it now.”

Her eyes shifted to his in the mirror. She had a smart-ass remark ready, but when he smiled at her, she thought,
Oh what the hell.

“We look pretty good.”

With his hands on her shoulders, he pressed his cheek to hers. “I think we’ll do.”

“Let’s go play Hollywood.”

I
t felt like a play, the set, the costumes, the lights. Mason Roundtree’s primary residence might have been New LA, but he didn’t stint on his New York pad.

The Park Avenue townhouse rose three stories and boasted a roof terrace with domed lap pool and garden. He’d gone minimalist contemporary in style with lots of glass, chrome, open space, and blond-toned wood. Here and there a pin light showcased some sinuous sculpture or
jewel-toned ball. Art juggled between colorful splashes or dramatic black-and-white photographs.

Off the entryway with its single spear of silver light, the living area spread under high ceilings. A fire simmered low in a silver hearth.

“At last.” Blunt as a thumb in a black suit, Roundtree shot out a hand, gripped Eve’s. He sported a goatee, a perfect triangle of blazing red, and a mass of wildly curling hair.

She thought he might look more at home felling a tree with an axe in some mountain forest rather than a sleekly modern New York drawing room.

“You’re a hard woman to wrangle, Lieutenant Dallas.”

“I guess.”

“I missed you on set today. I wanted some time.”

“It was murder.”

“So I heard.” His eyes blazed blue as he studied her face. “Damn bad timing. I’m hoping you find some time to come down to the studio,” he said to Roarke with another fast grip and grin.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Damn near wrapped. I don’t want to jinx it but so far this project’s been smooth as a baby’s ass.” He had his sharp bluebird eyes on Eve again, one hand tugging at his goatee. “You’ve been the only wrinkle. Can’t get you to consult, take meetings, do lunch, interviews.”

“It’s still murder.”

“Ha!”

“Mason, you’re hogging our centerpiece.” A curvy brunette wearing lipstick red with glinting sapphires glided up. “I’m Connie Burkette, Mason’s wife. Welcome.”

“I’m an admirer,” Roarke told her.

She purred. “Nothing lovelier to hear from a gorgeous man. Let me return the compliment to you, and to you,” she said to Eve. “Mason’s
been saturated with this project for nearly a year now. And when he’s saturated, I get soaked. I feel like I already know both of you. So, champagne, wine? Something stronger?”

At the most subtle of signals one of the staff passing flutes of champagne sidled over.

“This is good. Thanks.” Eve took a glass.

“Your dress is fabulous. You wear Leonardo, don’t you?”

“He’s a little big for me.”

Connie laughed, an easy, throaty sound that went with her slumberous brown eyes. “That he is. I loved meeting him and Mavis. She’s a true and unique delight. And the baby! What a beauty. Now come along with me, see your old friends, your new ones.”

“Dallas!” Marlo, sleek in a sheath of dull bronze, rushed forward. “I’m so glad you made it. Peabody said you’d already closed the case. Isn’t that amazing?” she said to Connie. “They caught a killer within hours.”

“It’s not hard when the killer’s a moron,” Eve commented.

“Aren’t the two of you something?” Connie caught one of Eve’s hands, one of Marlo’s in turn, and made Eve wonder if everybody in Hollywood felt compelled to touch.

“I’ve known Marlo for years,” Connie continued, “but seeing you both side by side is, well, surreal. There are differences, of course.” Angling her head, Connie looked them both up and down. “Marlo’s a bit shorter, and your eyes are longer in shape—and without the makeup Marlo lacks the little chin cleft—but at a quick glance, it’s—”

“A little spooky,” Eve finished.

“It is.”

“Joel wanted me to have the cleft done surgically—the producer,” Marlo added.

“You’re not kidding.”

“I’m not. Joel tends to go over the top. But it’s what makes him the best.”

“I shaved my head for him for
Unreasonable Doubt,”
Connie said. “But in that case he and Mason were right. And I have the Oscar to prove it.”

“It wasn’t the shaved head that netted you the Oscar. It was brilliance.”

“See why I keep this beautiful young thing around?” Connie asked. “Oh, that must be Charlotte Mira.”

Eve glanced back. “Yeah. That’s Doctor Mira and her husband, Dennis.” God, he was cute, Eve thought, in his spiffy suit and mismatched socks. She felt more relaxed just looking at him.

“I need to introduce myself. Take care of our star, Marlo.”

“You know I will. She’s magnificent,” Marlo said when Connie walked toward the Miras. “She’s the classiest actor, and woman, I know. She and Roundtree have been married—first time for both—for over twenty-five years. That’s a good run for anybody, but a miracle in our business, especially when both are in the business.”

Then she stared over Eve’s shoulder, blinked. “Oh my.”

“Ladies.”

“Roarke,” Eve said by way of introduction.

“It certainly is. They didn’t get the eyes. Close, but not quite. Sorry. Julian and I have been working together for months now, and I’ve gotten used to thinking of him as you. But now here you are.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. I admire your work.”

“You’re here.” Peabody, girls rising proudly over a bodice of stars scattered on midnight, rushed over. “We were getting the tour of the house, which is seriously uptown.”

“Peabody.” Roarke took a flute off a tray and offered it. “You look delicious.”

“Oh my God,” Marlo said under her breath as Peabody flushed and beamed.

“Thanks. This is so exciting. We’re having the best time.”

Beside her, Ian McNab grinned. His version of fancy dinner wear ran to a pumpkin-colored shirt, a lime green suit, and high-top skids that matched the shirt. His blond hair was pulled back from his thin, attractive face in a long tail, leaving the dangle of gold loops on his ear to glint in the light.