Concealed in Death (In Death #38)(82)

“Does he blame himself? If he’d been good, would she still be alive? Rigid tradition again,” Mira emphasized. “She sinned, went off the path. Did he push her off the path? And I’d wonder if his treatment only added to the problem, the fact both he and the mother were under the same doctor’s care.”

“And it didn’t help with the mother.”

“Even an excellent therapist can miss signs of suicidal tendencies. But I think I’ll do some research on his doctor, and I may understand more through that. Still, the short answer is yes, I believe he’s viable as a suspect. I’ll want to know more about Sebastian before I say the same about him.”

“I’ll get you what I can. If Montclair Jones killed those girls, his siblings had to know.”

“Considering how tightly their lives intertwined? I’d rate the probability very high on that.”

“Then I’ll push on it. Thanks. I should get going.”

“Finish your chocolate,” Dennis told her. “I’ll be back in a minute.” He wandered out.

“It’s so calm here,” Eve commented.

“Oh, here has its moments.”

“Yeah, I guess everywhere does. But it’s got a calm center—I’ve been thinking about centers. And calm’s different from regimented. It strikes me that’s maybe how the Jones house was. Even with all those good intentions, and from my look at the parents they aren’t fanatics or burn-in-hellfire types. But the center was their particular beliefs, the mother’s problems, and their children were kept in that center without much chance to walk around outside it. Maybe you raise really caring, good, selfless people that way, or maybe you don’t.”

“Parenthood always has its individual structure. And it’s a risky business. You do your best.”

“I’ve seen the worst come out of the best, and know the best can come from the worst. It’s a hell of a crapshoot. I really appreciate the time,” she said as she rose. “And this really amazing magic in a cup. He could open a shop selling only this stuff, and make a fortune.”

“He enjoys making it for family, and thank God not very often or I’d gain fifty pounds every winter.”

“Tell him thanks again,” Eve said as she put on her coat. “And I’ll—”

She broke off as Dennis came back in, with a pair of wooly red gloves and a bright blue ski cap. “Here now,” he said, “put these on.”

“Oh, well. I really—”

“Can’t go around with cold hands,” he continued, tugging the gloves on her hands himself as he might with a child. “And you’ll need to keep that brain warm to figure everything out, won’t you?” He put the cap on her head, adjusted it. “There. That’s better.”

When she said nothing, genuinely could say nothing, he just smiled. “I’m always misplacing my gloves, too. They should have tracking built in.”

“Thanks,” she managed. “I’ll get them back to you.”

“No, no, don’t worry about it. The kids are always leaving gloves and hats and scarves and socks and everything else around here. We have a box full of them, don’t we, Charlie?”

“Yes, we do.”

“You keep them,” Dennis said as he walked her to the door. “And stay warm.”

“Okay. Ah, in case I don’t see you before, Merry Christmas.”

“Christmas?” He looked momentarily blank, then grinned. “Of course, it’s nearly Christmas, isn’t it? I lose track.”

“Me, too.”

She walked down, then onto the sidewalk with emotion clogging her throat. And looked at the gloves as she walked. Roarke gave her countless gloves for the exact reason Dennis had put these on her. Gorgeous, sleek, warm leather, which she promptly ruined or lost.

But she swore she’d make damn sure she didn’t lose the silly red ones.

She made it to her car with warm hands—and maybe a warm brain.

• • •

When Eve walked into a buzzing bullpen she caught the scents of refined sugar, yeast, fat before she spotted Nadine Furst. Doughnuts, Eve thought, the cop’s sweet spot. No one knew that better than the ace reporter and bestselling author.

Nadine, her excellent legs crossed, her well-toned butt perched on Baxter’s desk, chatted amiably with Trueheart, flicked a drop of jelly from the corner of his mouth. And made his young, handsome face flush when she licked it from her finger.

“Pitiful.” Eve said it loud enough to penetrate the din. It quieted the voices, but didn’t stop the scramble to stuff sugary fat in mouths. “Just pitiful. Every one of you.”

Jenkinson swallowed a last bite of cruller. “They’re still warm.”

Okay, warm doughnuts was playing dirty, but still.

“Sanchez, you’ve got crumbs on your shirt. Reineke, for God’s sake, wipe that doughnut cream off your face.”

“It’s Bavarian,” he said with a satisfied smile.

“Peabody.”

Since she’d just taken a big bite of glazed with sprinkles, Peabody shoved it into her cheek like a chipmunk, talked around it. “I, ah, contacted Philadelphia Jones, Lieutenant. She’s coming in this morning. I was, um, about to book an Interview room.”