Brotherhood in Death (In Death #42)(74)

When she merely cocked an eyebrow, he smiled a little. “Tea then. If you would.”

“I’ll see to it. I hope you’ll both respect that my husband is grieving,” Petra said before she left them.

“She’s feeling very protective, understandably. Lieutenant Dallas, isn’t it? And Detective . . .”

“Peabody.”

“Yes, of course. Please, let’s go in, sit down.”

The front parlor continued the formality of the foyer, offset just a bit by a small, cheerful fire in a white marble hearth. The flowers here were red as blood roses; the big, boxy sofa was covered in a fussy floral print that made sitting on it feel like squatting in a garden.

Easterday took a chair with wide wings, sighed.

“It feels—it all feels impossible. I hadn’t gotten my mind around Edward, and now Jonas. Do you have a suspect?”

“We can’t discuss the details of the investigation. I’m sorry for the loss of your friends,” Eve continued, “and understand this is a difficult time for you.”

“I haven’t practiced criminal law in more than two decades—I leave that to my daughter—but I know how it’s done. Do you have questions for me that may help in your investigation?”

“Yes. You’ve lost two friends in two days, Mr. Easterday, to murder. Men you’ve known since college—about fifty years—and have stayed close to. Close enough so your name is on a short list.”

His eyes widened. “Of suspects?”

“No, sir. Of victims.”

Now he glanced quickly toward the foyer. “That sort of statement will upset my wife.”

“She’ll be more upset if I come back here to notify her of your murder.”

He shoved out of the chair. “This is ridiculous. No one has any cause to kill me.”

“But did to kill your friends?”

He sat again, spread his hands. “Edward was my friend, and has been more than half my life. As his friend I can say he could be difficult, even abrasive. No doubt he made enemies in politics, as a senator, and now through his institute.”

He’d known this was coming, Eve thought. Known there would be a list and he’d be on it. Grief aside, he’d prepared.

“And Jonas Wymann?” she asked him.

“Politics again. Surely you’ve made that connection. Jonas was brilliant, but his views were not always popular, and he’s wielded considerable influence for many, many years.”

“There are other connections,” Eve began.

Petra walked into the room just ahead of the housekeeper, who wheeled a large tea tray.

“Thank you, Marian. I’ll pour out.”

The housekeeper didn’t quite curtsy, but Eve sensed it was implied.

“I can deal with this, Petra.”

“I’m not leaving.” She spoke pleasantly, but the steel beneath was more than implied. “Cream? Sugar?” she said to Eve.

“No thanks.”

“Detective?”

“A little cream, two sugars. Thanks.”

“There’s no point in arguing, Marshall,” she continued as she poured the tea. “I’m staying. You were saying something about connections, Lieutenant.”

“The two victims have more in common with each other, and with you, Mr. Easterday, than politics.”

Petra made a sound—not quite a gasp—and passed Eve tea that Eve didn’t want. “You think Marshall . . . This person who killed Edward and Jonas, you think he might try to hurt Marshall?”

“Now, Petra—”

“Don’t placate me, Marshall. It’s something that caught me by the throat after I got over the shock of hearing about Jonas. I dismissed it, but . . .” She looked back at Eve, dead in the eye. “Is this what you think?”

“It’s something we have to consider, and have to take seriously to ensure your husband’s safety.”

“Yes. Good. Take it seriously. We’re all going to take it very seriously.”

“Petra, Edward and Jonas shared political networks and leanings I haven’t.”

She only shook her head. “You’ve been friends for decades. You socialize regularly, you golf, play poker, travel together. You lived in the same house for years back in— Oh God! Fred and Ethan.”

“That’s Frederick Betz,” Eve said quickly. “Who’s Ethan?”

“Ethan MacNamee,” Easterday told her. “One of our housemates back at Yale. He and Edward didn’t stay particularly close, and he lives in Glasgow most of the year. I only see him myself every few months.”

“And when you get together, it’s like no time’s passed,” Petra insisted. “You’re like brothers.”

“A brotherhood,” Eve said, watching Easterday’s face.

That face went stony, and his eyes cut away, just for an instant. “Yes. We’re like brothers, you could say, and I’ve lost two.”

“Three,” Petra said quietly, and took her husband’s hand. “There were six of them who shared the group house at Yale. The other was William Stevenson—Billy. He died, tragically, just before Marshall and I were married.”

“What happened?”

“He suffered from depression.” Marshall began to rub his temple. “He’d poured considerable money into a new business venture that failed, and was going through a second, brutal divorce. His father was—and is—a hard man, and berated him. It was a terrible series of blows.”