Celebrity in Death (In Death #34)(4)

The rest of the kitchen, the dining and living areas, master bedroom, guest bed and bath were as spotless, accessorized and arranged as an upscale home decor showroom.

“No sign of forced entry,” the officer on the door told Eve. “We got the vic’s spouse in the bedroom there. He says he was out of town the last two days, got home—early, wasn’t supposed to come in until this afternoon—and found the body.”

“Where’s his suitcase?”

“In the bedroom.”

“Let’s get the security discs.”

“The spouse said the security was off when he arrived. He claims the vic often forgot to set it.”

“Find their security station, check anyway.” Eve tossed her Seal-It back in her field kit and crouched by the body. “Let’s confirm ID, get TOD, Peabody. He took a hard blow here, left side of the head, across the temple, eye socket. Something wide, heavy, and flat.”

“Vic is confirmed as Cecil Silcock, age fifty-six, of this address. Married to Paul Havertoe, four years. He’s the owner/operator of Good Times—party planning company.”

“No more good times for him.” Sitting back on her heels, Eve looked around. “No forced entry. And the place looks like it’s been cleaned and fluffed by magic fairies. He’s wearing a—bet it’s platinum—wedding band with a big fat diamond. Robbery unlikely as a motive here. The jewelry, plus I can see plenty of easily carried top-scale electronics.”

“TOD ten-thirty-six. Dressed like this, no forced entry, he had to know the killer. He let the killer in, walked back here, maybe to make coffee or something. Whack, and Good Times Cecil is no more.”

“Could be just like that. Or could be, dressed like this, Cecil had company while his spouse was out of town, which out-of-towning we will confirm. Comes out to make a nice breakfast, company whacks him. Or spouse returns, realizes Cecil has not been a good boy, whacks him.”

The uniform came back in. “The security’s been off for twenty-eight hours, Lieutenant. We’ve got nothing for last night or this morning.”

“Okay. Start the knock-on-doors. Let’s see if anyone saw anything.”

Fitting on microgoggles, Eve took a careful study of the body. “Cecil’s as clean as the house. Smells like lemons.” She leaned her face to the face of the dead, took another sniff. “But there’s a little coffee here, too. Had himself a shower and a cup before the whack. No visible defensive wounds, or other trauma. Takes the hit, goes down, smacking the edge of the island here, then takes another hit, other temple, on the tiles. It’s odd, isn’t it?”

“It is?”

“Everything’s so clean, so tidy.”

“The vic was neat?”

“Maybe. Probably.” Eve took off the goggles, stood. “There’s no AutoChef. What kind of place is this?” She poked in the fridge. “Everything very fresh here, and also sparkly clean.” She began opening cupboards, drawers. “Lots of pots, pans, gadgets, matching dishes, wineglasses, blah, blah.” She pulled out a large, heavy skillet. Wide and flat-bottomed. “Got weight.”

“Oh, my gran’s got one of those. Cast iron. She swears by it, came down from her gran.”

Eve studied the skillet, crouched again, goggles on, to study the wound on the side of Cecil’s head. Pulling out another tool from the kit, she took a quick measure. Nodded.

“Betcha. Seal and tag for the sweepers. Let’s see if there’s any of Cecil on here. So, Cecil has company—or gets it—then they come in here, behind the cooking island. But there’s no sign of cooking—and since there’s no AutoChef like any other civilized kitchen in the known world, he’d have to use a pan, tools. And what about coffee?”

“That’s an espresso-type machine there. You put the whole beans in, water, and it grinds and brews.”

“But it’s clean and empty.”

“Maybe he didn’t have time before the whack to prep.”

“Uh-uh. He’s got a touch of coffee breath. He didn’t just come in here with the killer, and get smacked with a heavy object. I’m betting the cast-iron deal is the murder weapon. If he got that out, where’s the other stuff, whatever he was going to put in it to cook? If he’s arguing with somebody, is he thinking about making breakfast? Why doesn’t the killer leave the murder weapon out or take it with him? Instead he cleans it up, stores it—and in what appears to be its proper place.

“If you’re getting breakfast, what’s the first thing you do?”

“Get the coffee,” Peabody said.

“Everybody gets the coffee, and Cecil tells me he did just that. But there’s no coffee made, no cup or mug.”

Lips pursed, eyes scanning, Peabody tried to see it as Eve did. “Maybe he or they had already eaten, cleaned up. Then had the argument.”

“Could be, but if so, was this pan still out handy for the whack? Everything’s put away all perfect, but this is within handy reach. Because this?” She lifted the now-sealed skillet. “It’s a weapon of opportunity. Get pissed, grab, whack. You wouldn’t open the drawer, take it out of the stack, select the weapon, then whack.”

Peabody followed the dots. “You think the spouse did it, then cleaned up, then called the cops.”