Festive in Death (In Death #39)(83)

She caught the scent of food, of coffee, and followed her nose to her office where the table she and Roarke often shared had been extended to hold settings and chairs for four.

She watched Roarke come out of the little kitchen carrying a large, covered tray.

“You have droids to do that. I know you do.”

“Indeed we do, but it’s fun to fuss a bit yourself for friends and family here and there. I went with full Irish, all around, as a Scot would recognize the similar tradition.”

“They eat enough for five people at breakfast, too?” Eve asked as she went to her desk, got her weapon.

“It’s a fine meal that hits all the notes.” He walked to her, slung an arm around her shoulders, studied the board as she did. “Have you a plan of action then?”

“Sort of. Working on it. I’m thinking, poke at the wife, get her to give away a little more on the husband. Copley’s hands are dirty, and I think they’re bloody. She’s not stupid. I didn’t get stupid from her. If I play it right, she’ll wonder, and she may tell me something I can hook on to. Or the sister. Not stupid, either, but soft. I can probably find a spot or two on her to push. If she worries about the sister, I might get something out of her.”

“I’ve a feeling that family won’t be having a happy Christmas.”

“Not if things go right on my end.”

Peabody and McNab came in, both wearing lounging pants, loose tops.

“Where’d you get those clothes?” Eve asked.

“Summerset had them for us. Soft.” Peabody rubbed her own sleeve. “It’d be weird to eat breakfast in party clothes. Weirder to talk about the case wearing them.”

“Then we’ll eat, and we’ll talk.” Eve stepped back to the table, lifted the cover from the big platter.

“Wow! Look at all that. Smell all that.” Peabody sniffed the air, sighed.

“It’s tattie scones.” McNab’s face lit like a child’s. “You have tattie scones. Remember, Peabody? We had some when we went to Scotland, to spend the holidays with my family there. My granny made them.”

“Potato scones? Oh yeah. Deadly and delicious. Good thing I danced like a maniac for hours.”

Roarke gestured them to sit. “Summerset made them up, thinking you might enjoy a bit of home.”

“Fuel up,” Eve advised. “After this, the party’s over.”

“Tattie scones,” McNab said again, and dived in.

17

Tattie scones weren’t half bad, Eve discovered. Nor was eating them the morning after a big party with Peabody and McNab. She let the postgame analysis—as she thought of it—run its course with discussion, comments, opinions on who wore what, who did what—and with whom—who said what.

It was an oddity, really, just how much gossip could be distilled over a full Irish.

“I’m still trying to process my reaction to seeing Dickhead doing the sexy dance,” Peabody commented.

“I never want to hear the words Dickhead and sexy dance in any sort of conjunction again. Seriously,” Eve added. “That’s an order. Moving forward.”

She gestured to the board. “Copley remains top of the list. He fits the profile, his financial records demonstrate greed and deception, and indicate potential payoffs. His initials are listed on the vic’s spreadsheet with amounts that correlate to said payoffs.”

“Giving him motive,” Peabody agreed. “But then since Ziegler was the man a whole lot of people loved to hate, a whole lot of people had motive.”

“Accurate. Now look at the method. Two hard, and we believe enraged, impulsive shots with a handy blunt instrument. That’s where I bump down several of the whole lot of people. Rock could have pummeled him into paste—and if the vic showed any injuries from a fight, a beating, we’d be looking hard at him. Lance Schubert doesn’t show up on the spreadsheet, but he might have learned about the vic having sex with his wife, confronted him. But my personal probability index says Schubert would’ve gotten in a punch or two, and straight off. Have it out straight off rather than heading back to the bedroom while the vic packed.”

She pushed away from the table before she ate more bacon just because it was there. “McNab, what did you do when you thought—mistakenly—Charles had bounced on Peabody.”

“I punched him.” McNab danced his fingers up Peabody’s arm. “That’s all five-by-five now.”

“Because he hadn’t bounced on her, and because Charles is a reasonable sort of guy. But my point is, your first impulse was fist in the face. Schubert strikes me as the same, and I don’t see him letting it rest with his wife, who just doesn’t have the guile to lie to me about him knowing. Still, he’s not off the hook.”

“Vic asks him to come by,” Peabody speculated. “Tells him to try to extort money for keeping it quiet.”

“Exactly. Instant rage. Grab the handy blunt object. And end it with the flourish. The flourish fits him, and it fits Copley. What Copley doesn’t have is Schubert’s sense of self-worth. Schubert doesn’t have Copley’s greed, or his pattern of going after wealthy women, cheating on them, cashing in on them.

“Copley’s reaction, to my mind, would run like: Jesus, he took Ziegler to his club, treated him to golf and drinks and all that. Even though Ziegler’s so obviously socially and financially inferior. He did him favors, and what does he get? Blackmailed. It’s gone on long enough, time to take charge, time to show this ass**le who’s top dog. He loses his temper, which is also pattern, grabs the weapon, because he’s not the type who goes into a fight fair. Now look what Ziegler made him do. But it’s not enough. Ziegler humiliated him, so he’ll return the favor.”