Forgotten in Death(93)

“And it had to cost to maintain a country estate,” Eve added. “Tough going in the couple years before the Urbans, a lot tougher going during.”

“So you hook up—on a business level—with the deep pockets of a mob boss.”

“A calculated business decision,” Eve concluded. “But here you are, decades later and still hooked. And did that initial hook have anything to do with killing a pregnant woman and walling her up?”

“I gotta say, Dallas, it feels like Bardov would’ve been too smart for that. You don’t hide the body, you get rid of it.”

“Agreed. And I don’t see him condoning that kind of hit. But it’s time for these people to reach back in their memory banks.”

She drove along a wall of white brick to an arching white gate. And rolled down her window to speak into the security intercom.

Good morning. Rosehill is a private estate. If you have an appointment, please state your name.

“Lieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody.” Eve held up her badge for the scan. “We’re expected.”

Welcome to Rosehill. Please proceed through the gate and continue directly to the main house. You will be met. Enjoy your visit.

The gates swung soundlessly open.

The drive ran arrow straight to the house. They’d gone with white brick there, too, in a three-story structure that struck Eve as more big and sturdy than elegant.

Generous windows, yes, and plenty of plantings to soften those straight lines, but no balconies or terraces, no gracious front porch or veranda.

“It’s impressive,” Peabody commented. “But it’s not, you know, welcoming. It looks really stern and strict. Our house isn’t going to look stern and strict.”

“No chance of that.”

“The front garden’s nice, but there’s just the long, long lawn up to it. No trees or anything. You’ve got some over there, way to the side, and they probably have a garden in the back, but otherwise, there’s like this big blank green slate.”

She shot Eve a look. “I’m paying a lot of attention because I’ve got landscaping on the brain, but inside that, it kind of speaks to who lives here.”

“Agreed. It looks more like an institution than a home.”

“That’s it! And you get the feeling that everything inside runs on schedule. Or else.”

Eve pulled up at the end of the drive. Since she didn’t spot any other vehicles or a specified parking area, she left the car where it was.

The door, six feet across and twice that high in steel gray, opened as she and Peabody got out.

A man of about fifty, wearing Summerset black stood militarily straight. “Lieutenant, Detective. I’ll show you where you may wait.”

When she crossed the threshold, Eve’s sense of an institution didn’t fade. A well-endowed one, she thought as she scanned the grand foyer. A lot of dark, heavy furnishings, a lot of paintings of dour-looking people scowling out of dark, heavy frames.

A thick rug in red and gold tones spread over the floor to the straight-as-a-ruler staircase.

The man in black led them to a room off the right, where the generous window looked out over the foundation plantings and endless sea of green to the wall of white.

“May I take your coats?”

“No, we’re good.” Because it’s cold in here, she thought. Not temperature-wise, but in every other sense.

“Please make yourselves comfortable. The Singers will join you shortly, and you’ll have a tea and coffee service.”

More dark, heavy furniture, more—to her eye—depressing art. More white brick in a fireplace framed by dark wood. The white walls were done in stripes—one matte, one gloss, one matte, and so on—in a style she found disorienting.

“Antiques,” Peabody said, studying a deeply carved table. “Really valuable antiques, but too heavy for the room, you know? And you just want to strip off the decades of lacquer to get to the gorgeous wood under it.”

“Why are you whispering?”

“It just sort of feels like you’re expected to.”

“Got your dust catchers here and there, but no family photos. Not a single one. And what’s growing all over that couch?”

“Cabbage roses. It’s really old-fashioned and, again, just too much. And the millwork’s gorgeous, but with the white-on-white walls, it’s all wrong. I mean the walls are wrong. I’m taking mental pictures so I know what not to do.”

Eve heard the approaching footsteps—quick, female—and turned to the doorway.

Her first thought—though she’d studied Marvinia Singer’s ID shot—was the woman looked completely out of place in the cold, institutional air of the house.

Her hair swung in rich brown, chin-length curves around a pretty face warmed with a smile. She wore a bright blue shirt with a long tail over simple black leggings. Blue-and-silver twists dangled from her ears with a small diamond stud winking from the left cartilage.

Her voice rang like a bell. “Oh, I’m so sorry we’ve kept you waiting. I’m Marvinia Singer.” She stuck out a hand, gripped, and gave Eve’s a hearty shake before doing the same with Peabody’s. “My husband and his mother will be right along. Please, please, sit down. I’m delighted to meet you. How is Roarke, Lieutenant? I haven’t run into him in months.”