Vendetta in Death (In Death #49)(43)

She fought her way to the Upper East Side through traffic thick and jagged as a pile of bricks. And did her best to ignore the blasting cheer of ad blimps announcing Spring Sales! Top New Fashion Trends! until she slid into the wealth and privilege of Carnegie Hill. In the world of dog walkers, au pairs, and chauffeurs, she pulled up to the security station at a set of iron gates.

Through them, only a stone’s throw from the sidewalk, the house rose and spread, white limestone, tall, narrow windows, frilly balconies, dignified columns.

“Wow. It’s no Dallas Palace,” Peabody decided, “but it’s pretty mag. She must’ve done all right with the sale of the company.”

“It’s her grandmother’s. The ex lives with her grandmother.”

The Callahan household, the security comp announced, is unavailable for visitors at this time.

“Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody, NYPSD. We need to speak with Darla Pettigrew regarding a police investigation.”

She held up her badge for scanning.

Ms. Pettigrew is not available at this time.



“Make her available or I’ll come back with a warrant and we’ll have this visit at Cop Central. Scan the badge.”

A red light shot out, scanned.

Ms. Pettigrew will be informed of your arrival, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Please drive cautiously through the gates.



They slid apart with the faintest hum.

Eve drove through, parked in front of the wide, columned front entrance.

“Who’s the grandmother?” Peabody wondered as they got out of the car. “This place is abso-swank.”

“Some actress. Eloise Callahan.”

Peabody stopped dead, probably to avoid tripping over her jaw when it dropped to her feet. “Eloise Callahan! The Eloise Callahan?”

“The one who lives here.” Both clueless and disinterested, Eve walked to the arched double doors, rang the bell.

“Jesus, Dallas, Eloise Callahan isn’t just some actress. She’s like a legend.” Thrilled, Peabody had to press a hand to her heart. “She won like a zillion Oscars and Tonys and Emmys and you name it. And she was a total activist, too. She used her clout to help spearhead the Professional Parents Act, the gun ban. My granny actually marched with her. Granny said people tried to talk her into running for president, but she—”

Peabody broke off as the door opened.

Female droid, Eve thought after a moment. Seriously exceptional droid designed to mimic mid-thirties. Slim, attractive, with dark hair, dark eyes.

“Lieutenant, Detective, please come in.”

They stepped into a wide foyer with soaring ceilings. A massive chandelier hung overhead, dripping with elongated crystals in the iciest of blues.

The gleaming antiques—long tables, fancy chairs—the art—soft, sweeping watercolors—made her think Roarke would approve.

“Ms. Pettigrew will be down as soon as possible. May I take your coats?”

“No, thanks.”

“I’ll take you to the main parlor to wait.”

Rooms spilled from the foyer through wide archways. The main parlor had enough seating to hold about fifty asses by Eve’s estimation. More antiques, more soft colors, lots of fresh flowers.

A fire simmered low in a hearth flanked by slim, carved columns. Above it, above the thick mantel of natural wood, hung a painting of a woman about a decade younger, Eve thought, than the droid’s simulated age and a man maybe four or five years older.

They stood, both ridiculously beautiful, with him behind her, his arms wrapped around her waist and her hands over his. She wore white, bridal white, Eve realized, an unadorned sweep that skimmed to her ankles. Her hair, richly blond, tumbled down. She wore a crown of flowers. Her head tipped back toward his shoulder. His black suit contrasted sharply with the white gown.

Looking as ridiculously happy as they did beautiful, they smiled off into the distance.

“Will you join Ms. Pettigrew for coffee?” the droid asked.

“Sure. Great.”

“Please sit. We’ll be with you shortly.”

Peabody waited until the droid walked out before breathing, reverently: “That’s her. That’s Eloise Callahan. Jeez, she was just seriously gorgeous, right? And that’s Bradley Stone. Big love story. He was an actor, too, and they met on set, and fell big-time. They got married and had a couple of kids. I think they were together about twelve, fifteen years.”

It didn’t interest Eve in the least unless it connected to the case. But in case it did … “Love story gone wrong?”

“Well, yeah, because he died. He was filming on location, somewhere down South, I think, and some guy, one of the extras, I think, got a real gun on the set and just blasted away. The story is there were some kids in the scene, and he—Bradley Stone—shoved one of them to safety and took the hits.”

“He was a hero.”

Eve turned toward the woman in the archway. “My grandmother never married again. Darla Pettigrew,” she said as she walked in, offered her hand. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting, but I wasn’t dressed for the day.”

She was now, Eve thought, in black pants and a light gray sweater. She’d clipped her brown hair back from her face so it hung somewhat limply down her back. Though she’d slapped some makeup on, she still looked a little pale, a little tired.