Passions in Death, page 25
“Also a decent question, decent point. I’m going to surmise, pretty damn good.”
“Not a snap to move on from pretty damn good sex. And you start thinking it was better than maybe it was anyway. Ask me about my ex-wife.”
“That’s okay,” Eve told him. “You can keep that one to yourself.”
“I still say it’s easier to move on from just sex than sex with an emotional element mixed in,” Peabody insisted. “Especially if you don’t usually feel, maybe never feel, that emotional element.”
“I had that element.” The cop, a grizzled detective with tired eyes, shook his head. “Started out one way, then hit the other end of that scale at the end. You get pushed to move on, it pisses you off.”
“That.” Peabody pointed at him. “That’s what I’m saying. Erin forced Lopez to move on, and those feelings took that dive. So she killed her, and set it up to screw over Shauna’s big dream.”
“A reasonable scenario,” Eve agreed, and when the doors opened to let their elevator companion off, she asked, “You didn’t kill your ex-wife, did you?”
“Nah. Had a kid who’d’ve been pretty pissed off at me if I had. Me, I just imagine her miserable, and that keeps a spring in my step.”
“Just because he didn’t,” Peabody began, and Eve waved her off.
“I get it, Peabody, and it’s a solid rundown. I think you’re right about the feelings. Genuine or not, who knows, but definitely feelings there.”
“But you still lean toward Barney?”
Eve stepped out into the garage.
“He’s one of the Mr. All-Americans. Straight, white, male. Closing in on thirty, good-looking, solid job, sharp dresser. He’s also pretty much gotten what he wants. The popular boy in high school and part of the shining couple. Quarterback—calls the plays. Team captain, and all that. Two siblings, younger sisters. So he’s—potentially—the prince growing up.”
She got in the car. “Like Lopez, he works, and like Lopez, works at a career of his choosing. His parents remain married to each other, live in a house in the burbs—the same house where he grew up. The same district where he, Shauna, Becca—and his younger siblings—all went to school.”
“I don’t understand how that applies.”
“First, he’s a big brother. Maybe he takes that role too seriously. Second, he’s a big brother in what reads like a very traditional family. He had—they call it a career, right?—an upscale sort of high school career. He was a kind of star—Becca said royalty. She said Shauna—and think Shaunbar—was high school royalty.
“And he did just fine in college—not royalty, but he did fine.”
As she drove, she visualized it.
“Moves back—home first—works at a men’s shop in a local, upscale again, shopping area. Then he moved into the city. But when I took a look at both, guess who moved to the city first?”
“Oh.” Peabody pursed her lips. “Shauna?”
“Yeah, like about three months before him. And he not only moves to the city, gets a job in the men’s shop where he manages now, but moves into the same building as Shauna.”
“The same building?”
“At that time, yeah.”
“I missed that. It’s a pisser to have missed that.”
“I don’t know if either of us missed it before, or just didn’t look at that timing. Becca was already in the city—zipped straight into her job after college. She was around the corner at the time, and she and Shauna reconnected. Then the three of them reconnected. Shauna’s dating someone else—and Barney hooks up with Becca.”
“But you think he moved to the city, and where in the city, because of Shauna.”
“I think it’s possible. And now, what? She’s dating another woman? She’s engaged? She’s getting freaking married?”
“An ego thing? Like what’s wrong with my penis?”
“It’s a solid point. That wasn’t a damn pun.”
“It would be a good one.”
Eve pulled into the now familiar loading zone, flipped on her On Duty light.
“So his ego, led by his penis, decides Erin has to go,” Eve continued. “Or his big brother deal demands he has to go to save Shauna from making a mistake. A combination of both would work.”
She considered as they hiked to the apartment building. “It’s something to bounce off Mira. Both yours, and mine.”
“But you think it’s him.”
“At this point, Peabody, it’s a gut thing. It’s the deli meat—‘Let me make you a sandwich,’ and Becca’s casual ‘Stop hovering.’ Like he tends to do that. It’s the walking home with her from work, and it’s the timing when he moved here and where he moved.”
At the building, she took out her master.
“And topping all of that? His face when he saw me in the hall. The way he shifted the box, the way he tried to pump me for info and kept tossing out the lowlife theory.
“And I didn’t like the way he talked about Crack’s place. Personal maybe, but I didn’t like that, or how it slid just over the edge of victim shaming.”
Inside, they hiked up the stairs.
“No proof,” she added. “Nothing to hang that on but my gut. Nothing to hang it on Lopez but logic. We need enough to get one or both of them in the box. Just enough for that. It’s a first kill, and if a kill can be planned and impulsive at once, this one was.
“We’d break him—or her. Killing’s not who they are. Controlling is.”
“Yeah, controlling,” Peabody agreed. “Both of them. You’re right on that. Maybe benign in Barney’s case, but it’s still a controlling nature.”
“They shouldn’t have left the case,” Eve said as they came out on the fourth floor. “Whichever of them did it, they shouldn’t have left the case, should’ve resisted the need to add pain onto pain for Shauna. We’d have almost nothing without that.”
“I wish we had more than we do.”
“Hope can suck you dry. Work instead. We won’t be able to tell what Barney took—but we’ll go through and see if anything strikes.”
She mastered in.
After a quick scan of the living area, she gestured left, then to the side. “Photos gone, there and there. Of the two of them.”
“She might’ve wanted those. I’d want those.”
“Yeah, we’ll see if we can find out. Art’s still up.”
She walked into the kitchen, checked the friggie. Not only empty, but spotless. Not a single spill in sight.
“AC’s empty, too,” Peabody said after a check.
They walked out. Peabody took the bedroom, Eve the office/studio.
“The wedding dresses—they’re gone.”
“Yeah, some of Shauna’s shoes from in there.”
“Same with the dresser, Dallas. Some of Shauna’s stuff. It’s the size, the style makes it easy to see what’s hers, what was Erin’s.”
Eve moved in to the bedroom.
“There was another photo on the dresser—one of those e-frames that holds a bunch of photos and scrolls them when you want.”
“Some of the jewelry’s gone,” Peabody told her. “I’m going to say Shauna’s again—it’s the style. Erin’s stuff is more—I guess bold. Artistic.”
Peabody moved into the bathroom. “Basic supplies missing. Hair, skin stuff, some makeup, OTC meds, like that.”
“Okay. Okay. We’ve seen what we can see. I want to go by the gallery, speak to Frost, then we’ll go to the memorial.”
“Frost?”
“She’ll know what’s happening with the art. Let’s find out.”
Chapter Eighteen
Glenda had just opened the gallery when they walked in. Eve supposed she’d dressed for the memorial—or for work—which involved a slim back dress.
She stood with a man—early thirties, black suit, burnished blond hair in a small topknot—and held up a finger to Eve as a signal to give her a minute.
“Essie will prepare the Stenner watercolor for transport. Ms. Eglin’s sending a messenger to pick it up around noon. Just make sure everything’s ready. If Dale Wisebrenner brings in the bronze I approved after I leave, I want it placed in the south gallery.”
“Glenda, you told me. We’ve got it. And I know to contact Mr. Gibbets about the pottery, and tag Wilfred if he doesn’t show up by one. Don’t worry, please don’t worry. You’ve got enough on your mind.”
“Nagging you helps take my mind off what’s on it.” She gave his arm a squeeze as she spoke. “Give me a second.”
As she crossed to Eve and Peabody, the man discreetly moved through an alcove to give them the space.
“I hate memorials,” she said. “I can’t imagine anyone actually enjoys them, but I just hate them. Add I’m barely back from vacation and taking most of the day off. I’m dumping a lot on our team. Which is an excuse,” she added, “not to think about how much I hate going to Erin’s memorial. She’s too young to be memorialized. She should’ve had decades more.”
She brushed a hand over her perfectly styled hair. “And now I’m rambling. How can I help you?”
“I’m curious whether there are any plans for Erin’s art. You mentioned you hoped to have a posthumous showing.”
“Yes. Actually, Erin’s mother contacted me yesterday. It seems the family, and Shauna, talked it over. They’re going to choose some of Erin’s paintings for themselves. They’d asked if I’d be willing to hold a showing in the fall. They want to start a scholarship in Erin’s name for art students.”
She squeezed her eyes shut. “Damn it. It gets to me. It’s a generous idea, and Erin would love it. No question. I want to put together a proposal for the owners. They’re in Florence at the moment. I want to waive or at least greatly reduce our percentage.”
“So all her paintings—other than what she sold or gave as gifts, and whatever her family and Shauna want to keep.”
“Exactly. None of them want to profit, and instead want to create something meaningful. She has a lot of work stored at the studio.”
“Yeah, we saw it. Since they’re planning this, there’s a piece I’d like to pre-buy or bid on—whatever it is.”
“Oh?”
“Pizza parlor, interior. A lot of color and movement, and a lone figure sitting at the window counter.”
“Yes, I know the piece. It’s good. Not her best, if you want my opinion—which was also hers. But it’s good. Can I ask why you want it?”
“The place has a personal meaning for me.”
Glenda smiled a little. “Which means I could double its price, but won’t. In any case, if you find who killed Erin, they’ll want to gift it to you.”
“I couldn’t accept that. Not how it’s done.”
“Understood. I’ll speak to them. Personal meanings matter.”
Glenda looked over toward the portrait of the old woman.
“It’s all personal now.”
“But you’ll price the paintings you exhibit and sell?”
“Yes, that’s my job.”
“What about the paintings they keep?”
“I’ll appraise them if they want, for insurance, or simply to have a record. They haven’t asked about that.”
“Has anyone else?”
“No.” Her eyes narrowed. “You’d like me to let you know if anyone does.”
“Yes.”
“Then I will. If money was the reason, I hope you not only find them, catch them, but they live a long, miserable life in prison.”
“When we find them, catch them, I expect they will. Thanks for your help.”
They walked outside, headed for the car.
“It’s not money,” Eve said. “Maybe, maybe the killer realizes that’s a handy side benefit, but it’s not money.”
“Money’s not personal, and this was.”
“This was, and is. But making some money off the dead artist? A sweet bonus.”
When they reached the car, Eve slid behind the wheel. “We’ll head over to the memorial.”
“It’s a little early.”
“Yeah. This way we can watch people as they come in.”
* * *
Eve couldn’t claim to have a fondness for memorials, but God knew she’d been to more than her share.
The facility was quiet, dignified with its muted colors and subtly flower-scented air. Some light spilled through windows, but even that spilled subtly thanks to filters and privacy screens.
The second-floor room contrasted with the subtle, the muted, with vases and urns of boldly colored flowers, with more strewn on a long table of photographs of the memorialized. From childhood, Eve noted, to the end of her life.
On the other side of the room, another long table held finger foods, coffee, tea, more flowers.
What Eve assumed was a self-portrait stood on an easel at the front of the wide room. On the other side of a standing display of flowers stood another easel with an enlarged photo of Erin and Shauna, pressed cheek to cheek as they smiled out.
They hadn’t arrived too early for all, Eve noted. She recognized Erin’s family, and Shauna’s, gathered together near that front display.
Shauna, wearing a severe black suit, her bright hair pulled back just as severely, stood with them. When she saw Eve and Peabody, she laid a hand on a woman’s—Erin’s mother’s—arm, then stepped away to cross to them.
If she’d looked exhausted on the ’link screen earlier, now she looked nearly gray with fatigue. She’d done her best with makeup, but it showed through.
“Thank you for coming. I don’t suppose you have anything to tell me.”
“Not yet.”
Shauna just nodded, looked around as if she’d forgotten where she stood. “Erin loved flowers. She liked vivid colors. We picked these for our wedding.”
“They’re lovely,” Peabody said in her gentle way.
“We wanted what she’d want.” She glanced up as music came on, soft but with a steady beat. And smiled a little. “No dirges for Erin. She liked vivid music, too. Would you come speak to her family, and mine?”
“Of course.”
With Peabody, Eve walked down to the vivid flowers with their bold scents and spoke with the grieving.
“Is there nothing?” Erin’s mother had given her daughter her eyes, and now they pleaded with Eve. “Nothing you can tell us?”
“I can tell you that Erin’s our priority, and we’re doing everything we can to find out who took her life, who took her from you.”
“She was so bright.” The mother looked toward the daughter’s portrait. “So bright and full of life.”
Her husband put his arm around her shoulders as they began to tremble. “Come on now. Let’s sit down a minute. Let’s sit down over here.”
People began to sprinkle in, so Eve signaled Peabody. They’d stand in the back. And they’d watch.
Angie walked straight over to Erin’s parents, embraced them both. And when Erin’s mother broke down, embraced her again, and just held on.
Donna came in, tears already streaming, with Glenda holding her hand.
It didn’t surprise her to see Crack and Rochelle come in, both in dark suits.
Becca came in, Greg’s arm around her waist as they made their way to Shauna. He held them both in a three-person hug, then kissed Shauna’s forehead.
He went to the refreshment table, poured two cups of tea, then walked back to them, urging them to take the cups.
Others came, a sprinkle, then a stream. Another older couple—Barney’s parents, Eve identified. They went straight to Shauna, then to her parents.
Others she recognized from the party, some of them with other women or with men, some alone. Voices murmured over the music.
She spotted Lopez’s grandmother, on the arm of a man with silver hair. And where was Lopez? she wondered.
“A lot of people,” Peabody commented. “I don’t recognize all of them.”
“There’s one who’s not here.”
“Yeah, I got that. Pretty strange if she doesn’t at least make an appearance.”
Marcus Stillwater rushed in, looked harassed. After a glance at Eve, he muttered, “Caught in traffic, damn it. Told them to leave without me, then got caught in traffic.”
He hurried to Shauna, embraced her, then her family, then others. Crack and Rochelle made their way to the back and Eve.
“A lot of people cared about that girl,” Crack said. “You’re going to find the one who didn’t.”
“Working on it.”
“The one who just came in? He’s doing the eulogy. Shauna said she asked him, as she knew he’d handle it. She tried to write something out but worried she’d just break.”
“Barely holding on now,” Rochelle murmured. “I just can’t imagine.”
Stillwater pinned on a mic and stepped to the front of the center of the room.
His voice came clear and just loud enough to cut through the murmurs and still them.
“On behalf of Erin’s family, Shauna and her family, thank you all for coming to remember Erin. I’m Marcus, and while I only knew Erin a little more than a year, she brought such light and love into my life.”
He spoke, and spoke well, of her as a friend, a woman, an artist. His words brought tears, a little laughter, more tears, and Eve thought probably comfort.
When he finished, he invited anyone who wanted to say a few words, tell a story, share their thoughts.
Angie spoke of their long friendship; Donna of Erin’s unshakable loyalty. Glenda added more about her talent and her verve.
Others shared personal stories.
Barney stood behind Becca and Shauna, a hand on each of their shoulders.
When Shauna stepped forward, he said something to her. But she shook his hand away and walked to the front.
“Erin changed my life,” she began in a voice that trembled like the hands she clasped together. “She expanded my life and she brightened it. Who knew a pair of pink shoes could matter so damn much?”
A low ripple of laughter, and she managed a ghost of a smile.
“Without those shoes, she might never have shown me what love is, what it can be, what it needs to be. The sixteen months we had together opened my world, my mind, my heart.”
