Reunion in Death (3 page)

"The primary of record thought so."

"But you don't?"

"Nobody ever found the guy, nobody ever saw the guy, nobody she knew ever heard her speak of the guy. Or so they said. I went by to see the husband, met his new wife and kid. Little girl, couple years old."

"One could assume, justifiably, that after his period of mourning, he moved on, made a new life."

"One could assume," she replied.

"Not that I ever would, of course. Under similar circumstances, I'd wander aimlessly, a broken man, lost and without purpose."

She looked at him skeptically. "Is that so?"

"Naturally. Now you're supposed to say something along the lines of you having no life at all without me in it."

"Yeah, yeah." She laughed when he bit the fingers he'd been playing with. "So back to the real world. I think I know how it went down. A couple of good, hard pushes and it's closed instead of cold."

"But instead of pushing, you gave it to Peabody."

"She needs the experience. A little more time won't matter to Marsha Stibbs. If Peabody goes down the wrong channels, I'll steer her back."

"She must be thrilled."

"Christ, she's got stars in her eyes."

It made him smile. "What was the first case Feeney handed you?"

"Thomas Carter. Got into his sedan one fine morning, coded in, and the sucker blew up, sending pieces of him flying all over the West Side. Married, two kids, sold insurance. No side pieces, no enemies, no dangerous vices. No motive. Case stalled, went cold. Feeney dug it out, told me to work it."

"And?"

"Thomas Carter wasn't the target. Thomas K. Carter, second-rate illegals dealer with a gambling addiction was. Asshole hired hitman tapped the wrong guy." She glanced back to see Roarke still grinning at her. "And yeah, I remember how it felt to be handed the file and to close it."

"You're a good trainer, Eve, and a good friend."

"Friendship has nothing to do with it. If I didn't think she could handle working the case, I wouldn't have given it to her."

"That's the trainer part. The friendship part should be here shortly."

"Dinner. What the hell are we going to do with them when we're not eating?"

"It's called conversation. Socializing. Some people actually make a habit of doing both, on practically a daily basis."

"Yeah, well some people are screwy. You're probably going to like the Peabodys. Did I tell you that when I got back to Central, they were feeding the bullpen cupcakes and cookies? Pie."

"Pie? What kind of pie?"

"I don't know. By the time I got there all that was left of it was the dish-and I think somebody ate that. But the cupcakes were amazing. Anyway, Peabody came back in my office and said all this weird stuff about her mother."

He toyed with the ends of Eve's hair now, enjoying the streaky look of it. He'd have understood perfectly Boyd Stibbs's claim of not being able to keep his hands off his wife. "I thought they got along very well."

"Yeah, they seem to cruise. But she said how she needed to warn me that her mother had these powers."

"Wiccan?"

"Uh-uh, and not the Free-Ager hoodoo stuff either, even though she says her father's a sensitive. She said that her mother can make you do things you don't necessarily want to do, or say things you'd as soon keep to yourself. According to Peabody, I only asked them to dinner tonight because I was trapped in The Look."

Intrigued, Roarke cocked his head. "Mind control?"

"Beats me, but she said it was just a mother thing, and her mother was particularly good at it. Or something. Didn't make any sense to me."

"Well, neither of us know much about mother things, do we? And as she's not our mother, I imagine we're perfectly safe from her maternal powers, whatever they may be."

"I'm not worried about it, just passing on the warning."

Summerset, Roarke's majordomo and the bane of Eve's existence, came to the doorway. He sniffed once, his bony face set in disapproving lines. "That Chippendale is a coffee table, Lieutenant, not a footstool."

"How do you walk with that stick up your ass?" She left her feet where they were, propped comfortably on the table. "Does it hurt, or does it give you a nice little rush?"

"Your dinner guests," he said, curling his lip, "have arrived."

"Thank you, Summerset." Roarke got to his feet. "We'll have the hors d'oeuvres in here." He held out a hand to Eve.

She waited, deliberately, until Summerset had stepped out again before swinging her feet to the floor.

"In the interest of good fellowship," Roarke began as they started toward the foyer, "could you not mention the stick in Summerset's ass for the rest of the evening?"

"Okay. If he rags on me I'll just pull it out and beat him over the head with it."

"That should be entertaining."

Summerset had already opened the door, and Sam Peabody had his hand clasped, pumping away in a friendly greeting. "Great to meet you. Thanks for having us. I'm Sam, and this is Phoebe. It's Summerset, isn't it? DeeDee's told us you take care of the house, and everything in it."

"That's correct. Mrs. Peabody," he said, nodding at Phoebe. Officer. Detective. Shall I take your things?"

"No, thank you." Phoebe held on to the box she carried. "The front gardens and landscaping are beautiful. And so unexpected in the middle of such an urban world."

"Yes, we're quite pleased with it."

"Hello again." Phoebe smiled at Eve as Summerset shut the front door. "And Roarke. You were right, Delia, he is quite spectacular."

"Mom." Peabody choked out the word as the flush flooded her face.

"Thank you." Roarke took Phoebe's hand, lifted it to his lips. "That's a compliment I can return. It's wonderful to meet you, Phoebe. Sam." He shifted, shook Sam's offered hand. "You created a delightful and charming daughter."

"We like her." Sam squeezed Peabody's shoulders.

"So do we. Please, come in. Be comfortable."

He's so good at it, Eve thought as Roarke settled everyone in the main parlor. Smooth as satin, polished as glass. Within moments, everyone had a drink in their hands and he was answering questions about various antiques and art pieces in the room.

Since he was dealing with the Peabodys, Eve turned her attention to McNab. The EDD whiz was decked out in what Eve imagined he considered his more conservative attire. His periwinkle shirt was tucked into a pair of loose, silky trousers of the same tone. His ankle boots were also periwinkle. A half-dozen tiny gold hoops paraded up his left earlobe.

He wore his long blond hair in a ponytail that was slicked back from his face. And his pretty face, Eve noted, was approximately the color of a boiled lobster.

"You forget the sunblock, McNab?"

"Just once." He rolled his green eyes. "You should see my ass."

"No." She took a deep gulp of wine. "I shouldn't."

"Just making conversation. I'm a little nervous. You know." He nodded toward Peabody's father. "It's really weird making small talk with him when we both know I'm the one banging his daughter. Plus, he's psychic, so I keep worrying if I think about banging her, he'll know I'm thinking about banging her. And that's way too weird."

"Don't think about it."

"Can't help it." McNab chuckled. "I'm a guy."

She scanned his outfit. "That's the rumor anyway."

"Excuse me." Phoebe touched Eve's arm. "Sam and I would like to give you and Roarke this gift." She offered Eve the box. "For your generosity and friendship to two of our children."

"Thanks." Gifts always made her feel awkward. Even after more than a year with Roarke and his habit of giving, she never knew quite how to handle it.

Perhaps it was because she'd gone most of her life without anyone caring enough to give.

She set the box down, tugged on the simple twine bow. She opened the lid, pushed through the wrapping. Nestled inside were two slender candlesticks fashioned from glossy stone in greens and purples that melted together.

"They're beautiful. Really."

"The stone's fluorite," Sam told her. "For cleansing the aura, peacefulness of mind, clarity of thought. We thought, as you both have demanding and difficult occupations, this stone would be most beneficial."

"They're lovely." Roarke lifted one. "Exquisite workmanship. Yours?"

Phoebe sent him a brilliant smile. "We made them together."

"Then they're doubly precious. Thank you. Do you sell your work?"

"Now and again," Sam said. "We prefer making them for gifts."

"I sell when selling's needed," Phoebe put in. "Sam's too soft-hearted. I'm more practical."

"I beg your pardon." Once again, Summerset stood in the doorway. "Dinner is served."

It was easier than Eve thought. They were nice people, interesting and entertaining. And their pride in Peabody was so obvious it was impossible not to warm up to them.

"We worried, of course," Phoebe said as they began with lobster bisque, "when Dee told us what she wanted to do with her life, and where. A dangerous occupation in a dangerous city." She smiled across the table at her daughter. "But we understood that this was her calling, and trusted she would do good work."

"She's a good cop," Eve said.

"What's a good cop?" At Eve's frown, Phoebe gestured. "I mean, what would be your particular definition of a good cop?"

"Someone who respects the badge and what it stands for, and doesn't stop until they make a difference."

"Yes." Phoebe nodded in approval. Her eyes, dark and direct, stayed on Eve's.

And as something in that quiet, knowing stare made Eve want to shift in her seat, she decided Phoebe would be an ace in Interview.

"Making a difference is why we're all here." Phoebe lifted her glass, gesturing with it before she sipped. "Some do it with prayer, others with art, with commerce. And some with the law. People often think Free-Agers don't believe in the law, the law of the land, so to speak. But we do. We believe in order and balance, and in the right of the individual to pursue life and happiness without harm from others. When you stand for the law, you stand for balance, and for those individuals who have been harmed."

"The taking of a life, something I'll never understand, makes a hole in the world." Sam laid a hand over his wife's. "Dee doesn't tell us much about her work, the details of it. But she's told us that you make a difference."

"It's my job."

"And we're embarrassing you," Phoebe said as she lifted her wineglass. "Why don't I change the subject and tell you what a beautiful home you have." She turned to Roarke. "I hope after dinner we can have a tour of it."

"Got six or eight months?" Eve muttered.

"Eve claims there are rooms we don't even know about," Roarke commented.

"But you do." Phoebe lifted her brows. "You'd know all of them."

"Excuse me." Summerset stepped in. "You have a call, Lieutenant, from Dispatch."

"Sorry." She pushed away from the table, strode out quickly.

She was back within minutes. One look at her face told Roarke he'd finish the evening's entertaining on his own.

"Peabody, with me. I'm sorry." She scanned faces, lingered on Roarke's. "We have to go."

"Lieutenant? You want me to tag along?"

She glanced back at McNab. "I could use you. Let's move. I'm sorry," she said again.

"Don't worry about it." Roarke got to his feet, skimmed his fingertips down her cheek. "Take care, Lieutenant."

"Right."

"Occupational hazard." Roarke sat again when he was alone with Phoebe and Sam.

"Someone's died," Sam said aloud,

"Yes, someone's died. And now," Roarke said, "they'll work to find the balance."

CHAPTER 3

Walter C. Pettibone, the birthday boy, had arrived home at precisely seven-thirty. One hundred and seventy-three friends and associates had shouted "Surprise!" in unison the minute he'd walked in the door.

But that hadn't killed him.

He'd beamed like a boy, playfully scolded his wife for fooling him, and had greeted his guests with warmth and pleasure. By eight, the party was in full swing, and Walter had indulged lavishly in the enormous and varied spread of food the caterers provided. He ate quail's eggs and caviar, smoked salmon and spinach rolls.

But that hadn't killed him either.

He'd danced with his wife, embraced his children, and dashed away a little tear at his son's sentimental birthday toast.

And had survived.

At eight-forty-five, with his arm snug around his wife's waist, he lifted yet another glass of champagne, called for his guests' attention, and launched into a short but heartfelt speech regarding the sum of a man's life and the riches therein when he was blessed with friends and family.

"To you," he said, in a voice thick with emotion, "my dear friends, my thanks for sharing this day with me. To my children, who make me proud-thank you for all the joy you've brought me. And to my beautiful wife, who makes every day a day I'm grateful to be alive."

There was a nice round of applause, then Walter tipped back his glass, drank deep.

And that's what killed him.

He choked, his eyes bugged. His wife let out a little shriek as he clawed at the collar of his shirt. His son slapped him enthusiastically on the back. Staggering, he pitched forward into the party guests, tipping several of them over like bowling pins before he hit the ground and starting having seizures.

One of the guests was a doctor, and pushed forward to lend aid. The emergency medical technicians were called, and though they responded within five minutes, Walter was already gone.

The shot of cyanide in his toasting flute had been an unexpected birthday gift.

Eve studied him, the slight blue tinge around the mouth, the shocked and staring eyes. Caught the faint and telling whiff of burnt almonds. They'd moved him onto a sofa and loosened his shirt in the initial attempt to revive him. No one had swept away the broken glass and china as of yet. The room smelled strongly of flowers, wine, chilled shrimp, and fresh death.

Walter C. Pettibone, she thought, who'd gone in and out of the world on the same day. A tidy circle, but one most human beings would prefer to avoid.

"I want to see the doctor who worked on him first," she told Peabody, then scanned the floor. "We'll need to have all this broken shit taken in, identify which container or containers were spiked. Nobody leaves. That's guests and staff. McNab, you can start taking names and addresses for followups. Keep the family separate for now."

"Looks like it would've been a hell of a party," McNab commented as he headed out.

"Lieutenant. Dr. Peter Vance." Peabody escorted in a man of medium build. He had short, sandy-colored hair and a short, sandy-colored beard. When his gaze shifted past her to Walter Pettibone's body, Eve saw both grief and anger harden his eyes.

"That was a good man." His voice was clipped and faintly British. "A good friend."

"Someone wasn't his friend," Eve pointed out. "You recognized that he'd been poisoned, instructed the MTs to notify the police."

"That's correct. The signs were textbook, and we lost him very quickly." He looked away from the body and back at Eve. "I want to believe it was a mistake, some horrible accident. But it wasn't. He'd just finished giving a rather schmaltzy little toast, so like him. He was standing with his arm around his wife, his son and daughter and their spouses beside him. He had a big grin on his face and tears in his eyes. We applauded, he drank, then he choked. Collapsed right here and began having seizures. It was over in minutes. There was nothing to be done."

"Where did he get the drink?"

"I couldn't say. The caterer's staff was passing around champagne. Other beverages could be had from the bars that were set up here and there. Most of us had been here since about seven. Bambi was frantic about all of the guests being in place when Walt arrived home."

"Bambi?"

"His wife." Vance replied. "Second wife. They've been married a year or so now. She's been planning this surprise party for weeks. I'm sure Walt knew all about it. She's not what you'd call a clever woman. But he pretended to be surprised."

"What time did he get here?"

"Seven-thirty, on the nose. We all yelled surprise per Bambi's instructions. Had a good laugh out of it, then went back to eating, drinking. There was some dancing. Walt made the rounds. His son made a toast." Vance sighed. "I wish I'd paid more attention. I'm sure Walt was drinking champagne."

"Did you see him drink at that time?"

"I think..." He shut his eyes as if to bring it all back. "It seems to me he did. I can't imagine him not drinking after a toast by his son. Walt doted on his children. I believe he had a fresh glass-it seems to me it was full- when he made his own little toast. But I can't say for certain whether he picked it off a tray or someone handed it to him."

"You were friends?"

Grief clouded his face again. "Good friends, yes."

"Any problems in his marriage?"

Vance shook his head. "He was blissful. Frankly, most of us who knew him were baffled when he married Bambi. He was married to Shelly for, what would it be? More than thirty years, I suppose. Their divorce was amicable enough, as divorces go. Then within six months he was involved with Bambi. Most of us thought it was just some midlife foolishness, but it stuck."

"Was his first wife here tonight?"

"No. They weren't quite that amicable."

"Anyone you know of who'd want him dead?"

"Absolutely no one." He lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. "I know saying he didn't have an enemy in the world is a cliché, Lieutenant Dallas, but that's exactly what I'd say about Walt. People liked him, and a great many people loved him. He was a sweet-natured man, a generous employer, a devoted father."

And a wealthy one, Eve thought after she'd released the doctor. A wealthy man who'd dumped wife number-one for a younger, sexier model. As people didn't bring cyanide as a party favor, someone had been there tonight for the express purpose of killing Pettibone.

Eve did the interview with the second wife in a sitting room off the woman's bedroom.

The room was dim, the heavy pink drapes drawn tight over the windows so that the single lamp with its striped shade provided a candy-colored light.

In it, Eve could see the room, all pink and white and frothy. Like the inside of a sugar-loaded pastry, she thought. There were mountains of pillows, armies of trinkets, and the heavy scent of too many roses in one space.

Amid the girlish splendor, Bambi Pettibone reclined on a pink satin chaise. Her hair was curled and braided and tinted in that same carnival pink to set off a baby-doll face. She wore pink as well, a shimmering ensemble that dipped low over one breast and left the other to be flirtily exposed but for a patch of sheer material shaped like a rose.

Her big blue eyes shimmered prettily with the tears that trickled in tiny, graceful drops down her smooth cheeks. The face spoke of youth and innocence, but the body told another story altogether.

She held a fluffy white ball in her lap.

"Mrs. Pettibone?"

She let out a gurgling sound and pushed her face into the white ball. When the ball let out a quick yip, Eve decided it was, possibly, some sort of dog.

"I'm Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD. This is my aide, Officer Peabody. I'm very sorry for your loss."

"Boney's dead. My sweet Boney."

Boney and Bambi, Eve thought. What was wrong with people? "I know this is a difficult time." Eve glanced around, decided she had no choice but to sit on something fluffy and pink. "But I need to ask you some questions."

"I just wanted to give him a birthday party. Everyone came. We were having such a good time. He never even got to open his presents."

She wailed the last of it, and the little puff ball on her lap produced a pink tongue and licked her face.

"Mrs. Pettibone... could I have your legal name for the record?"

"I'm Bambi."

"For real? Never mind. You were standing next to your husband when he collapsed."

"He was saying such nice things about everybody. He really liked the party." She sniffled, looked imploringly at Eve. "That's something, isn't it? He was happy when it happened."

"Did you give him the champagne for his toast, Mrs. Pettibone?"

"Boney loved champagne." There was a sentimental and soggy sigh. "It was his very, very favorite. We had caterers. I wanted everything just so. I told Mr. Markie to be sure his servers passed champagne the whole time. And canapés, too. I worked really hard to make it perfect for my sweet Boney. Then he got so sick, and it happened so fast. If I'd known he was sick, we wouldn't have had a party. But he was fine when he left this morning. He was just fine."

"Do you understand what happened to your husband?"

She hugged the puffball dog, buried her face in its fluff. "He got sick. Peter couldn't make him better."

"Mrs. Pettibone, we think it's most likely the champagne was responsible for your husband's death. Where did he get the glass of champagne he drank right before he collapsed?"

"From the girl, I guess." She sniffed, stared at Eve with a puzzled expression. "Why would champagne make him sick? It never did before."

"What girl?"

"What girl?" Bambi repeated, her face a baffled blank.

Patience, Eve reminded herself. "You said 'the girl' gave Mr. Pettibone the champagne for his toast."

"Oh, that girl. One of the servers." Bambi lifted a shoulder, nuzzled the little dog. "She brought Boney a new glass so he could make his toast."

"Did he take it off her tray?"

"No." She pursed her lips, sniffled softly. "No, I remember she handed it to him and wished him a happy birthday. She said, 'Happy birthday, Mr. Pettibone.' Very politely, too."

"Did you know her? Have you employed her before?"

"I use Mr. Markie, and he brings the servers. You can leave everything up to Mr. Markie. He's just mag."

"What did she look like?"

"Who?"

God, give me the strength not to bitch-slap this moron. "The server, Bambi. The server who gave Boney the glass of champagne for his toast."

"Oh. I don't know. Nobody really looks at servers, do they?" She said it with a fluttering confusion as Eve stared at her. "Tidy," she said after a moment. "Mr. Markie insists on his staff presenting a neat appearance."

"Was she old, young, tall, short?"

"I don't know. She looked like one of the servers, that's all. And they all look the same, really."

"Did your husband speak to her?"

"He said thank you. Boney's very polite, too."

"He didn't appear to recognize her? The server," Eve added quickly as Bambi's mouth began to purse on what surely would have been another "Who?"

"Why would he?"

No one, Eve decided, could pretend to be this level of idiot. It had to be sincere. "All right. Do you know anyone who'd wish your husband harm?"

"Everyone loved Boney. You just had to."

"Did you love Boney while he was married to his first wife?"

Her eyes went bigger, rounder. "We never, ever cheated. Boney didn't even kiss me until after he was divorced. He was a gentleman."

"How did you meet him?"

"I worked at one of his flower shops. The one on Madison. He used to come in sometimes and look at the stock, and talk to us. To me," she added with a trembling smile. "Then one day he came by just as I was getting off and offered to walk me home. He took my arm while we walked. He told me how he was getting a divorce and wondered if I'd have lunch with him sometime. I wondered if it was just a line-guys say stuff like that, you know, how they're leaving their wife, or how she doesn't make him happy, and all sorts of things just to get you to go to bed with them. I'm not stupid."

No, Eve thought, you redefine the word.

"But Boney wasn't like that. He never tried anything funny."

She sighed and began to rub her cheek against the dog's fur. "He was romantic. After he was divorced we dated and he took me to really nice places and never tried anything funny then either. Finally I had to try something funny because he was just so cute and cuddly and handsome. And after that, he asked me to marry him."

"Did his first wife resent that?"

"Probably. Who wouldn't resent not having Boney for their own sweetie? But she was always very nice, and Boney never said anything bad about her."

"And his children."

"Well, I don't think they liked me at first. But Boney said they'd come to love me because he did. And we never had a fight or anything."

...

"Big, happy family," Eve repeated after another ten minutes with Bambi. "Everyone likes everybody and Pettibone is the original nice guy."

"Wife's a dink," Peabody offered.

"The dink was still smart enough to hook a rich husband. Could be smart enough to put a little something extra in his birthday bubbly." But she paused a moment at the top of the stairs to let various options play out in her mind.

"Have to be really smart, and have nerves of iron to pull it off when she's standing right next to him in front of a room full of well-wishers and witnesses. We'll dig into her background a bit, see how much of that sugar plum bit is real and how much is an act. Anybody who lives in that much pink goes to the top of my short list."

"I thought it was kind of pretty, in an 'I love being a girl' sort of way."

"Sometimes you scare me, Peabody. Do a standard run on her to start. Bambi," she added as she started down. "People who name their kid Bambi must know she's going to grow up a dink. Now we get to play with Mr. Markie. Who comes up with this shit?"

"We've got him and the catering staff in the kitchen area."

"Good. Let's find out who gave Pettibone the champagne and wished him happy birthday."