Festive in Death (In Death #39)(13)

“Shortsighted,” Peabody commented as they reached garage level. “You’d for sure lose the client if you blackmailed her, then you lose the commission and any chance for more.”

“Some people only see the right now, and end up killing the golden duck.”

“Goose. The golden goose.”

“Duck, goose, what’s the difference? They’re both weird-looking birds.”

“Did you ever play Duck, Duck, Goose?”

Eve pulled out of the garage, into traffic. “Did I ever play with ducks and goose—geese? Why the hell would I?”

“No, the kids’ game, where you sit around in a circle, then one kid walks around, tapping the other kids on the head. She says, ‘Duck, duck,’ until she taps one and says, ‘Goose.’ Then that one, the goose, chases her around the circle, tries to catch her before she gets to where the goose one was sitting. If she doesn’t catch her, she goes around the circle.”

Eve stared out the windshield. “That has to be the dumbest-ass game of all dumb-ass games.”

“It’s kind of fun when you’re six. We had roast goose when we went to Scotland to visit McNab’s family over Christmas,” Peabody continued, obviously caught in a theme. “It was really good. We’re doing the quick in and out shuttle this year to see my family. It’ll be soy and tofu and lots of veg, which doesn’t compare. But my granny will bake, a lot—and that makes up for everything. She makes the most incredible mincemeat pie.”

“I thought your guys didn’t eat meat.”

“Mostly they don’t. Mincemeat isn’t meat.”

“Then why do they call it meat?”

Peabody sat a moment, baffled. “I don’t know. Maybe it used to have meat, but my granny doesn’t make it like that. It’s all kind of fruit and spices and I think some whiskey or something. I have to ask for the recipe now. I like making pies.”

Holiday shopping had infected downtown. With all the shops open, hyping gifts everyone had to have, parking became more challenging. Eve beat out a mini for a second-level space by punching vertical and zipping up and in with a couple of coats of paint to spare.

“Jesus, Dallas, warn me next time. Look there’s a bakery. Bakeries sometimes have hot chocolate, and always have pastries. I had a simulated egg pocket from Vending. It was worse than it sounds. A lot worse.”

“Later,” Eve said and arrowed straight to Natural Way.

It was a quiet little place, homey, with what Eve thought of as Free-Agey, foresty fairy music playing softly.

It smelled of cranberries, and a little pine, a hint of cinnamon. And, indeed, she saw the daily special drink was some sort of cranberry-cinnamon tea.

A few people sat at tiny tables drinking out of mugs the color of stone or eating what looked to Eve like grass and berries, or in one case a muffin that resembled tree bark.

The countergirl offered a dreamy smile. “Welcome to the Natural Way. What can we do for your body, mind, and spirit?”

“You can get the owner.” Eve held up her badge.

“Oh, you’d like to see Alla? She’s busy in the kitchen. We’ve already run out of our yamberry muffins, and we’re low on our nipnanna pie.”

“That’s a problem. You need to get her.”

“I do?”

“Yes, for the good of your body, mind, and spirit.”

“Oh, okay.”

“What the hell is nipnanna?” Eve wondered.

“Turnip and banana pie.”

Eve turned her head, looked hard into Peabody’s face. “You’ve got to be lying.”

“Not. My aunt makes it. It’s not quite as bad as it sounds, but almost. Yamberry muffins, now—that’s yams and cranberries—that’s pretty good stuff.”

“Please.”

“It’s no apple Danish, but it’s pretty good.”

Alla stepped out. Her chestnut hair was bundled under a squat chef’s cap, leaving her fresh, pretty face unframed. She wore a long, flowered dress over a willowy form, and a gray bib apron over the dress.

“Is there a problem?” she began.

“Could be.” Eve showed her the badge. “We need to talk.”

“I don’t understand. I’m up to date on everything. Business license, health department.”

“It’s not about that. Is there a place we can talk?”

“We’re really busy in the back.” She glanced behind her. “We’re running holiday specials, and they’re paying off. We can grab that table over there. Dora, let’s have three-drink specials. I could use a little break.”

“Right away, Alla.”

She pulled off her cap as she walked around the counter. A long, sleek tail of hair tumbled out.

“What’s this about?”

“Trey Ziegler.”

Irritation flickered in Alla’s large brown eyes. “What about him?” she demanded as she sat. “If he’s in trouble and looking for me to bail him out, he can forget it.”

“He’s dead.”

“What?” She jerked back as if punched. “What do you mean?”

“His body was found early this morning. When did you last see him?”

“That’s not right. That’s a mistake.”