Enigma (FBI Thriller #21)(37)
Sherlock looked back to see Butler still speaking into her cell, her tablet in one hand, writing as she listened. “My partner will be along shortly.”
Sylvie stepped back, waved her in. “I’m in dire need of coffee. I’ll get you a cup, too.” Sylvie Vaughn waved a hand around the living room. “Don’t mind the mess, the housekeeper is coming this morning, bless her well-paid heart. I didn’t even make up the bed, not that I ever do, such a waste of time.”
Sherlock stepped into a white world filled with dark blue furnishings, from dark blue draperies to dark blue scatter rugs on the floor. Clothing, underwear, shoes—from sandals to six-inch ankle breakers—covered every surface. Dozens of magazines were piled up next to a dark blue easy chair with several, hopefully empty mugs piled on top.
She smiled at Sylvie. “I love housekeepers.”
Sherlock watched her shove away sample fabrics stacked on a dark blue leather chair, frown, and rub her finger over a damp-looking stain on its arm. “Have a seat. I’ll get us some coffee, and you can tell me how much I’m going to have to put out on a lawyer this time. Please tell me he didn’t kill anyone.”
“Not that I know of,” Sherlock said and watched Sylvie stride out of the living room. Sherlock waited where she was, getting a feel for the place. She wondered what Josh the fast-talking husband thought about this room. Not a minute later, Sylvie returned carrying two mugs. Before she could hand over one, Sherlock pulled out her cell, called up John Doe’s photo. “Do you recognize this man?”
22
Sylvie looked closely at the photo. “He looks like he’s asleep. Please don’t tell me he’s dead.”
“No, he’s not dead. Do you know him?”
“No, I’ve never seen him before. Why? Who is he?”
“He couldn’t be a friend of your husband’s? Perhaps one of the neighbors?”
“No, or I’d have seen him.” She thrust the mug at Sherlock. “I hope you didn’t want milk or sugar. I’m out of both.” She looked around the large living room with a dispassionate eye. “You’re lucky I work in the back, otherwise there wouldn’t be anyplace to sit. Now, what do you think Josh has done?”
Sherlock took a drink of the coffee, so strong she wondered if she’d sprout hair on her chest. It was delicious. She toasted Sylvie with her mug. “Thank you. I’m not here about your husband. I’m here about Kara Moody, one of your best friends, I believe. She moved to Washington, D.C. five months ago?”
Sylvie sat forward. “Is Kara all right? I haven’t spoken to her in ages. We email, sure, but only short, weekly updates on what we’ve been doing. Is something wrong?”
“Kara had her baby, Alex, on Sunday.”
Sylvie sat forward, smiling hugely. “Good for her. I wondered why I hadn’t heard from her. Alex is healthy? Beautiful? Kara is, so I imagine he’s adorable.”
“Yes, he is. I understand you met Kara at the gallery where she worked, that you became close friends very quickly.”
Sylvie beamed. “And isn’t that great? Never happened to me like that before. But Kara—she was special, and I saw it right away. You know what else? She has a great sense of style, and a nice figure. I was always trying to get her on Cycling Madness, my YouTube show, to model clothes for me. I knew she’d look great in whatever I put her in, but she wouldn’t.”
Sherlock said, “Yes, she is lovely. Do you remember why you were in that particular gallery that day, Ms. Vaughn? The day you met Kara for the first time?”
Sylvie watched a pile of magazines slide off the arm of the sofa and land on top of some underwear. Then she smiled. “Oh, I remember now. I wanted to buy a painting for my mother.”
“She liked a particular painting at that gallery?”
“I don’t remember, to be honest. After I met Kara, I forgot about my mom’s painting. Can you please explain to me why you’re here and asking me these questions about Kara?”
“Actually, Ms. Vaughn, I’m here to ask you what you know about Kara getting drugged at your house nine months ago at your husband’s birthday party.”
Sylvie’s thin shoulders went board straight, but she didn’t say anything, only looked down into her coffee mug as if the coffee would give her an answer. Slowly she looked back up at Sherlock. “Kara didn’t tell me until she was nearly five months along that she was pregnant and what she thought had happened to her at my party.
“I didn’t want to believe it until I remembered that some of the men there were friends of my husband’s, and I didn’t know them. So I started thinking about which of those guys drinking too much and shoveling down my excellent hors d’oeuvres would stoop that low, but, honestly? I couldn’t think of anyone. I asked Josh and he acted all macho until I punched him and told him I was serious. He said sure, most of the guys were horndogs, but none of them were into roofies. I believed him.
“I’m pretty good about inviting couples—I like the balance—but it was my husband’s thirty-fifth birthday, and as I said, he had some of his own friends here. A couple were single, a couple divorced and on the make, if you know what I mean. There was lots of booze and dancing and general drunkenness; that’s how Josh likes his parties. We don’t have problems with the neighbors calling the cops because I always invite them, too, and they’re all couples, probably drink more than the other guests.