Festive in Death (In Death #39)(67)

She couldn’t be sure the wife didn’t know about the side piece.

Stepping back, she studied it.

Of all the players, Felicity and Sima struck her as the most naive and vulnerable. Though Sima not as much as Felicity. Then again, Eve figured no one over the age of four could equal Felicity’s level of naivete.

Still, wasn’t it interesting that Ziegler and Copley—victim and potential killer—both hit on the naive and trusting? Copley paid the freight—or more accurately his wife (whether or not she knew of the arrangement) paid the freight for living quarters, expenses. Ziegler had exploited Sima’s desire for a hot boyfriend so she paid most of the freight.

But they’d both manipulated women to get what they wanted.

Ziegler made a habit out of manipulating and exploiting, she thought as she circled the board.

Had Copley?

Maybe another pass at his financials would tell her, but for that she’d have a smoother path with Roarke. Plus, she just didn’t have the time right now.

But she could squeak out a little for the spreadsheet.

At her desk, she brought it up, scrolled through looking for Copley’s initials.

She highlighted them, transferred the payments and dates to her board.

She found other sets of initials with different amounts, but nothing else as consistent over the past six weeks—which corresponded to the new locks on the vic’s employee locker.

Records and payments for NQ (Natasha Quigley), MQS (Martella), KR (Kira Robbins), all jibed with their statements. These, too, she added to her board.

There were plenty of others, he’d had a hell of a sideline. Those she could cross with clients already interviewed also jibed. Extortion in some cases, or straight money for sex in most of the others.

Sex and money, two of the top motives for murder. She could ascribe both to Copley, add in fear of exposure, which would likely lead to loss of money when the wife booted him.

And wouldn’t she?

Going through a rough patch, trying to save the marriage. Quigley had all but begged her not to tell Copley about the sexual arrangement she’d had with Ziegler.

She backtracked to her notes on that interview, refreshed her memory.

Quigley stated if Copley knew she’d been sexually involved with Ziegler he would end the marriage. Because he wouldn’t tolerate the cheating, Eve assumed.

But what if Quigley had copped to Copley’s arrangement with the sexy young thing, had used that knowledge to pressure Copley into fixing the marriage—or losing the big house, the big income, the status? It wouldn’t do for him to get wind she’d been playing around on the side right along with him. She’d lose her leverage.

She gives Copley the ultimatum. He decides Ziegler double-crossed him. Kills Ziegler. Fit of passion and temper, followed by the flourish. Merry Christmas, f**ker.

Goes home, parties, tells the wife he’ll break it off, they’ll go on a trip. Has to tell sexy young thing he’s been called out of town, give it all a chance to cool down.

He’d have to break it off with Felicity, or convince Quigley he had. With Ziegler out of the picture, he’d have a better chance of keeping things status quo if he played penitent with the wife.

Another round with Quigley, Eve decided. Drop Felicity’s name, get a reaction. Ruin a marriage, most likely, she thought, but one that was built on a pile of lies and betrayals anyway. Likely topple it on that shaky pile, but potentially bag a murderer.

Something to think about.

“But not now, damn it.”

Seeing her time was more than up, she shut down, hurried from the room.

Hurried back, muttering curses as she stripped off her weapon harness. She secured it in her desk drawer, secured the office doors for good measure. Then bolted in the direction of the ballroom to face the music.

• • •

It was a war, she realized when she pulled up at the open ballroom doors. Just as chaotic, just as fraught, just as noisy.

Some shouted or snapped out orders or directions like commanders to the foot soldiers who hauled, carried or clashed. Some stood on towering ladders that made her stomach jitter.

People of all sizes, shapes, colors swarmed the enormous room, trudged or scurried in and out of the open terrace doors where more of them swarmed.

The trees recently brought in stood in each corner, celebrational giants now outfitted or being outfitted with lights, gold beads, red berries, and long drops of crystal. Under one, someone arranged boxes wrapped in red paper with gold bows, gold paper with red bows, as meticulously as if placing explosives.

She saw what appeared to be miles of tiny white lights, acres of greenery, pounds of berries, and enough crystals to blind the sun.

That didn’t count wreaths, filmy drapery, plants, or flowers.

She thought about running away, dealing with Summerset’s righteous wrath. It could be worth it.

She actually took one testing step in retreat.

“Mrs. Roarke!”

A woman burst through the swarm. She waved a tablet, streaked across the crowded floor on glittery airboots. What looked like a couple sets of painted chopsticks stuck out and up from her messily bundled hair.

No retreat, Eve ordered herself. No surrender.

“Dallas. Lieutenant Dallas.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Pardon me, I’m just a little frantic. Ha. Ha. Ha.”

She actually laughed like that. In three, distinct Ha’s.