Festive in Death (In Death #39)(20)

“No kidding? Great to meet you. If you’ll excuse me a minute, I’ll be right with you.”

“Do you see anything you like?” Astrid asked Eve.

“I don’t know.” There were bags, with straps, without straps, satchels and cases, tiny little purses that would be absolutely useless, enormous ones that could hold a room of furniture. “I don’t get this stuff.”

“Ladies like bags. Don’t you got bags?” Tiko demanded.

“I have pockets. I have a field kit. I’ve got a file bag when I need it.” And she had the dozens of girlie bags that found their way into her closet along with the dozens of shoes, the forest of clothes.

Her husband definitely got that stuff.

“Why don’t you pick one of the five,” Astrid suggested. “Tell me a little about her.”

“Ah. Okay, elegant, classy, not rigid or stuffy, but classy. Mostly goes for soft colors, but can surprise you. Everything always goes together like she worked it out on a program first. Professional, smart. Kind.”

“I like her already. I’ve got something in the back that just came in. I think it might work.”

“Told you they’d take care of you,” Tiko said when Astrid hurried off.

“The stuff in the back isn’t hot, is it?”

Insult covered his face. “What you think? These are good guys.”

“Okay, okay. Shopping makes me twitchy. Why is there so much of everything?”

“So not everybody has the same.”

Astrid came back with a box, slipped out the long, narrow bag. “I only ordered a few of these, just to see how we did. They’re hand-painted. Really special, I thought.”

“Ah.” Eve studied it. Smooth, a little silky, with a pastel garden of flowers and a jeweled butterfly as a clasp.

“Since they’re hand-painted, they’re one of a kind.”

“I guess she is, too,” Eve said, thinking of Mira. “I think she’d go for it.”

“I got a nice silk scarf that color pink.” Tiko tapped one of the flowers. “You fluff it up inside the purse, and you got class, like you want.”

Eve eyed him. “Sold. Moving on. Now I’ve got one who’s out there. Nothing’s too much, too wild, too anything. Color, bright, changeable, bouncy. Oh, and she’s got a kid. A girl kid, not quite a year old.”

“Oh, I’ve got it.” Astrid clapped her hands together. “We have these great mother-daughter bags. Just so much fun. Practical, too, as they’ll convert from shoulder bags to handbags to backpacks.”

Astrid pointed up.

Eve spotted an explosion of bright colors, big bag, small bag, hooked together. And a pair with a sparkly unicorn dancing over each.

“Oh yeah, that’s Mavis and Bella. The unicorn set.”

“Let me get the hook.”

While Astrid did just that, Eve looked down at Tiko. “I bet you’ve got a scarf that’ll go with it.”

“I got a scarf for the mama be perfect, and I got a baby girl cap, a pink one shaped like that horse with the horn.”

“Jesus, Tiko, you’re killing me. Sold.”

Forty minutes after she’d parked, Eve loaded shopping bags in her car, then got behind the wheel.

Then just sat there until her head stopped spinning.

God, she wanted a drink. Two drinks.

Telling herself to be grateful Christmas only hit once a year, she pulled back into traffic and fought the holiday rage of it all the way to the gates of home.

Diamond white lights twinkled in the trees along the drive, lending a fanciful air to the grounds. And the house rose, all gorgeous gray stone and shining glass, a fancy itself with its towers and turrets.

Lights glimmered, gleamed, outlining home against the night sky. Greenery draped and dripped, adding warmth to elegance. Candles glowed in every window, and that was welcome.

She, the lost child, had grown used to its beauty—that was love. But she would never take a single inch of it for granted. That was gratitude.

At the moment, some eighteen hours after she’d walked out its doors, the prospect of walking in again mainly brought relief.

She got out of the car, into the cold where the wind kicked at her like a bad-tempered child. She dragged the shopping bags out of the back. How had she bought so damn much? The entire event seemed like some kind of fever dream now, leaving her exhausted and with a low-level headache.

She dragged, pulled, lifted. How did she even know so many people in the first damn place? How had it happened?

Tissue flicked, threatened to fly, boxes clunked. She told herself if the bags ripped she’d leave the whole stupid lot wherever it fell.

With bags thumping against her legs she hauled everything to the door, fought it open, staggered in.

He was there, of course, lurking—the scarecrow in a black suit that was Summerset. Roarke’s majordomo stood in the brilliantly lit foyer, a smirk on his pale, bony face, and the fat cat Galahad squatting like a furry Buddha at his feet.

“Is this the Ghost of Christmas Present?” Summerset wondered aloud.

Eve narrowed her eyes. She wanted to fling something back, some sharp-edged retort about cadavers on holiday, but . . .

She dumped everything where she stood. “I’ll pay you a thousand dollars to wrap everything in here.”