Festive in Death (In Death #39)(34)

“I’m sure Summerset could run the preparations seamlessly. But, Eve, your participation is valued.”

“Yeah? Let’s hear him say that after I screw it up.”

• • •

Eve caught up with Peabody on the corner of West Twelfth and Broadway after squeezing her car into a skinny, overpriced lot a couple blocks north. The walk through the brisk winter air gave her a little more time to think.

“How many did you talk to?” Eve asked.

“The first three, so only one more on Trina’s hot list. But there’s still more on the overall client list.”

“We’ll talk to the last on Trina’s, then hunt up Rock Britton. He’s probably at his gym, and it’s not that far.”

“Okay. Oh, look, there’s a cart. We could grab a couple of dogs, and I could fill you in before we talk to the last woman. Kira Robbins.”

“You’re thinking about filling your stomach more than filling me in.”

“Two birds, one dog. Each.”

Amused, Eve headed for the cart. “Still short, right?”

“Just till payday. We started this savings program—McNab and me. We’ve almost got enough put away to give to Roarke.”

Eve stopped at the cart. “Why would you give money to Roarke? He already has almost all the money in all the known universe.”

“To invest for us. He said he would, and who would you trust more to do that than Roarke, who has almost all the money in all the known universe?”

“Good point.” She held up two fingers at the cart operator. “Loaded,” she added. “And smart,” she added for Peabody.

“We figured, in a couple years maybe we could buy a place. That’s a kind of investment from an investment, so we put some away each payday, and it’s like gone.” She swiped her palms together. “I mean it’s something we agreed not to dig out except for emergencies. Not for Christmas presents and going to the vids and stuff like that.”

“That’s pretty . . . adult.”

“I know! It’s a little scary.”

“Tube of Pepsi,” Eve told the vendor, glanced at Peabody.

“I already had a fizzy. Damn. Make mine a Diet Pepsi.”

“Okay.” With the dogs in hand, Eve turned back to Peabody. “Report,” she said and took her first bite.

“Louanne Parsons,” Peabody began as they started to walk. “I tapped her at work. She and a friend own a gift boutique in SoHo, not that I could afford anything in there. Anyway, she denied, initially, any sort of sexual encounter with the vic. She’s in a long-term monogamous relationship. But with a little prodding, she admitted to it. One time, she said. Just one time. She’d hurt her shoulder, and Ziegler came over to do a massage.”

“With tea.”

“You got it. Long and short, when I filled her in, she didn’t get mad, she started to cry. Just sat there, tears streaming. She didn’t strike me, Dallas. I didn’t get the tiniest buzz from her.”

“Alibi?”

“At the boutique until five, both her partner and a clerk verified. Says she went home, boyfriend got home from work around five-thirty, and they stayed home until eight. Went out, met friends for dinner. She said she was going to tell her boyfriend, all of it, and didn’t know what he’d think or do. They’ve been together six years. She asked if I’d give her time to do that before we told him.”

“We’ll toggle her down for now, and take a pass at the boyfriend. Maybe he found out, took care of Ziegler himself. Next?”

“Teera Blankhead. On her second marriage, money on both sides. Big converted loft in Greenwich Village. Three kids. One from his first, one from her first, one together. She admitted it, was pissy. What the hell business was it of mine? She went out of orbit when I told her the details. Cried, too, but she was raging while she cried.”

Peabody took another bite of her soy dog. “Man, why are street dogs so good? Anyway, Blankhead has a pretty sweet gym in her house, though she goes to the fitness center twice a week. She had Ziegler come over, twice a month for a personal session. He had the tea iced, called it an energy/detox blend. They ended up finishing the session by doing it on her yoga mat. Said she was pissed at herself after, that she and her first husband had both cheated, and she’d gone into this second marriage promising herself she wouldn’t, no matter what. She stopped the personal sessions after that, and kept it to the fitness center.”

Peabody sucked down soda. “She has a temper, and she’s tall—about your height—strong. She was believable, but I could see her picking up a blunt object and bashing Ziegler in a rage.”

“Whereabouts?”

“Charity lunch deal until about three. She says she opted to walk home, did some window-shopping. Older two kids had after-school activities, husband dinner and a basketball game with a couple friends, and the nanny had the youngest at a holiday party. She was alone at home until after seven, when the kids started coming in.”

“Then we keep her high on the list for now.”

Peabody stopped in front of a trim, whitewashed building. “Robbins lives here. Forty-two, currently single. Two previous cohabs, no marriages. She’s a writer. Fashion blogs and books. She has the entire fifth—top—floor of the building. I found an article on her,” Peabody explained as they walked to the entrance.