Memory in Death (In Death #22)(36)

Fourteen months in Beaumont, then another move, another application. Another approval.

"Itchy feet? You know what, Trudy, you bitch? I don't think so. Then I came along, and look here, you pulled up stakes again three months after I went back inside. More applications, more approvals, and you just grifted your way around the big-ass state of Texas, taking the fostering fees, right up until Bobby graduated from college and your pro-mom status was up."

She leaned back, considered.

Yeah, it could work. It was a good game. You've got your license and approval, in state. So you just move from location to location, pick up more kids, more fees. Child Services, busy agency. Always under-staffed, underfunded. Bet they were pleased to have an experienced woman, a pro-mom, willing to take on some charges.

Trudy had settled in one place after her professional mother status elapsed, and she'd gone out of the fostering business. Kept close to her son, Eve mused. Another handful of short-term jobs. Not a lot of income for a woman who supposedly liked to shop, and had jewelry valuable enough, reportedly, to leave home when traveling.

Interesting, Eve thought. Interesting. And she'd bet a pound of real coffee beans that she hadn't been the only child Trudy Lombard had traumatized.

8

SHE WISHED ROARKE HADN'T MADE HER FEEL obliged to go by the Miras. She was tired, and there was still a lot of work on her plate, a lot of thinking time to put in.

Now she'd have to visit. Sit around, drink something, make conversation. Exchange presents. The last always made her feel stupid, and she didn't know why. People seemed to have this unstoppable need to give and receive stuff they could easily afford to go out and get for themselves anyway.

Now here she was, standing outside the pretty house in its pretty neighborhood. There was a holly wreath on the door. She knew holly when she saw it now, after her experience with the decorators.

There were candles in the windows, pretty white lights glowing calm against the dark, and through one of those windows she could see the sparkle of a Christmas tree.

There would be presents under it, probably a considerable haul as Mira had grandchildren. She'd also learned that if one present wasn't enough to give a spouse for the holiday, a half dozen didn't come up to snuff for a kid.

She happened to know Peabody had already bought three—count them, three—presents for Mavis's baby, and the kid wasn't due to be born for over a month.

What the hell did you buy for a fetus, anyway? And why did nobody else think that was kind of creepy?

Roarke had shipped a damn cargo freighter of gifts to his relatives in Ireland.

And she was stalling. Just standing out in the cold and dark, stalling.

She shifted the packages under her arm, rang the bell.

It was Mira who answered moments later. Mira in her at-home wear, soft sweater, trim pants, bare feet.

"I'm so glad you came."

Before Eve could speak, she was being drawn inside, into warm, pine- and cranberry-scented air. There was music playing, something quiet and seasonal, and more candles flickering.

"Sorry it's so late."

"It doesn't matter. Come into the living room, let me take your coat."

"I've got these things. Just some things I picked up."

"Thank you. Just sit. I'm going to get you some wine."

"I don't want to hold you up from—"

"Please. Sit."

She laid the gifts on the coffee table beside a big silver bowl full of pine cones and red berries.

She'd been right about the mountain of gifts, Eve noted. There had to be a hundred packages under the tree. How many was that each? she wondered. How many of the Miras were there, anyway? They were kind of a horde. Might be almost twenty of them altogether, so...

She got to her feet as Dennis Mira strolled in.

"Sit, sit, sit. Charlie said you were here. Just came in to see you. Wonderful party last night."

He was wearing a cardigan. Something about the scruffy look of it with one of its buttons dangling from a loose thread turned her heart to mush.

He smiled, and since she continued to stand, walked to stand beside her and turned that dreamy smile toward the tree. "Charlie won't go for fake. Every year I tell her we ought to buy a replica, and every year she says no. I'm always glad."

He stunned Eve by draping an arm over her shoulder, giving it a squeeze. "Nothing ever seems too bad, too hard or too sad when you've got a Christmas tree in the living room. All those presents under it, all that anticipation. Just a way of saying there's always light and hope in the world. And you're lucky enough to have a family to share it with."

Her throat had snapped shut. She found herself doing something she'd never have believed, and even as she did it, she couldn't see herself doing it.

She turned into him, pressed her face to his shoulder, and wept.

He didn't seem the least surprised, and only stroked and patted her back. "There now. That's all right, sweetheart. You've had a hard day."

She hitched in a breath, drew away, appalled. "I'm sorry. Jesus, I'm sorry. I don't know what's... I should go."

But he had her hand. However soft and sweet he appeared, he had a grip like iron. "You just sit down here. I've got a handkerchief. I think." He began patting his pockets, digging into them with that vague and baffled expression.