Festive in Death (In Death #39)(59)

“Right, but . . .” She topped off his coffee, sent him a calculatedly innocent look. “If you should happen to run into Summerset while I’m gone, you could—”

“No.”

“Come on.”

“Absolutely no. Your deal.”

She sulked over her eggs. Even bacon lost some appeal with the prospect of wrangling with Summerset.

“Isn’t it bad enough I have to face hours of swarming decorators, then end that small nightmare by having Trina pour gunk all over me? Now I have to face the smirking disapproval of our resident corpse?”

“You run an entire division of murder cops firmly, cleverly, and efficiently. You’d step in front of a stunner to save an innocent bystander. You would, and have, faced off with vicious murderers. I think you can handle Summerset, decorators in our employ, and a hair-and-skin consultant.”

He topped off her coffee in turn. “Buck up, Lieutenant.”

“Bite me.”

“I’ll schedule that in.”

She downed the coffee, rose. “Fine, but it’s not my fault I don’t know where the hell he is, and it’s a really big house, so . . .”

She broke off, had to hold back a snarl when Roarke simply lifted his eyebrows.

“Okay, fine!” The battle lost, she stalked over to the house comp. “Where’s goddamn Summerset?”

Good morning, darling Eve. Summerset is currently in the Park View guest room.

“Great. Where the hell is that?”

Before Roarke could answer, the computer continued in smooth tones.

The Park View is located here.

The little screen displayed a floor plan with a red dot pulsing in one of the rooms.

“The elevator would take you directly there if you request it,” Roarke pointed out.

There was more chance Summerset would have moved on if she hoofed it. So she stalled. “Do all the guest rooms have names?”

“It’s a simple way to organize them. Would you like a list?”

“No. How many are there?”

“More than enough.”

“Ha!” She pointed at him. “Even you don’t know.”

“The number can vary as some of the salons, the sitting rooms, even entertainment areas can be utilized as guest rooms, if needed. Shouldn’t you be on your way?”

“I’m going.” She shoved her hands in her pockets. “I’ll be back in plenty of time to do whatever.”

“I’m sure you will. And I’ll wish you luck even though with it you might be longer.”

“Right.” She hesitated, but couldn’t find another reasonable excuse to stall. “If it’s longer, I’ll let you know.”

When he only smiled, she walked out. She detoured to her office, fiddled for a few minutes, grabbed the coat she’d left there, then followed the route from the screen map.

Everything smelled faintly of pine and cranberries—how was that even possible? Floors gleamed, art shone.

She found the bedroom, started to knock. Stopped herself. It was her house, too, she reminded herself, and opened the door.

Easy to see how it got its name as windows framed with shimmering drapes opened to a view of the great park.

The bed struck her as sort of regal with a lot of deep carving on dark wood, and more shimmering stuff flowing over it under a bold garden of pillows.

Galahad sprawled over the foot of the bed as if he lived there.

Summerset, in his habitual funereal black, set a large painted vase filled with bloodred lilies on a table, turned to her.

“Is there something you need, Lieutenant?”

“No. What are you doing in here? Are those flowers for the cat or what?”

“I’m sure he appreciates them, but no. You’re entertaining this evening, and there would be the possibility a guest might overindulge and be best served by staying the night.”

“That’s what Sober-Up’s for.”

“Regardless, hospitality decrees guest rooms are prepared for any eventuality. It’s called courtesy.”

“I’d say courtesy is not getting shit-faced drunk when you come to someone’s house to a party, but that’s just me. I have to go out for about an hour. I’ll be back to do the stuff.”

He arched one skinny eyebrow, made her teeth want to grind. “It’s police business. I’m the police. I’m not welshing on the deal. I’ll be back.”

“As you say.”

“That’s right, as I say. So . . . go fuss with other bedrooms for potential drunks.”

She walked out. She would not feel guilty for doing her job. She had a possible lead, and she had to follow up while it was hot, didn’t she? Damn right.

But she checked the time, quickened her steps.

She considered pulling Peabody in, but didn’t see the point. If she pulled a name out of the fishing expedition, she could toss it to her partner, have Peabody do a run.

While she herself told people, who knew better than she did anyway, where to put flowers and lights and shiny balls.

And maybe, if she got through that fast, and Peabody came up with some solid information, she could squeeze out another hour to tug that line.

She’d honor the deal, she’d contribute, but she wasn’t going to spend an entire day playing lady of the manor. It made her feel stupid.