The In Death Collection, Books 11-15

by J. D. Robb

  In it, Eve could see the room, all pink and white and frothy. Like the inside of a sugar-loaded pastry, she thought. There were mountains of pillows, armies of trinkets, and the heavy scent of too many roses in one space.

  Amid the girlish splendor, Bambi Pettibone reclined on a pink satin chaise. Her hair was curled and braided and tinted in that same carnival pink to set off a baby-doll face. She wore pink as well, a shimmering ensemble that dipped low over one breast and left the other to be flirtily exposed but for a patch of sheer material shaped like a rose.

  Her big blue eyes shimmered prettily with the tears that trickled in tiny, graceful drops down her smooth cheeks. The face spoke of youth and innocence, but the body told another story altogether.

  She held a fluffy white ball in her lap.

  “Mrs. Pettibone?”

  She let out a gurgling sound and pushed her face into the white ball. When the ball let out a quick yip, Eve decided it was, possibly, some sort of dog.

  “I’m Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD. This is my aide, Officer Peabody. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  “Boney’s dead. My sweet Boney.”

  Boney and Bambi, Eve thought. What was wrong with people? “I know this is a difficult time.” Eve glanced around, decided she had no choice but to sit on something fluffy and pink. “But I need to ask you some questions.”

  “I just wanted to give him a birthday party. Everyone came. We were having such a good time. He never even got to open his presents.”

  She wailed the last of it, and the little puff ball on her lap produced a pink tongue and licked her face.

  “Mrs. Pettibone . . . could I have your legal name for the record?”

  “I’m Bambi.”

  “For real? Never mind. You were standing next to your husband when he collapsed.”

  “He was saying such nice things about everybody. He really liked the party.” She sniffled, looked imploringly at Eve. “That’s something, isn’t it? He was happy when it happened.”

  “Did you give him the champagne for his toast, Mrs. Pettibone?”

  “Boney loved champagne.” There was a sentimental and soggy sigh. “It was his very, very favorite. We had caterers. I wanted everything just so. I told Mr. Markie to be sure his servers passed champagne the whole time. And canapés, too. I worked really hard to make it perfect for my sweet Boney. Then he got so sick, and it happened so fast. If I’d known he was sick, we wouldn’t have had a party. But he was fine when he left this morning. He was just fine.”

  “Do you understand what happened to your husband?”

  She hugged the puffball dog, buried her face in its fluff. “He got sick. Peter couldn’t make him better.”

  “Mrs. Pettibone, we think it’s most likely the champagne was responsible for your husband’s death. Where did he get the glass of champagne he drank right before he collapsed?”

  “From the girl, I guess.” She sniffed, stared at Eve with a puzzled expression. “Why would champagne make him sick? It never did before.”

  “What girl?”

  “What girl?” Bambi repeated, her face a baffled blank.

  Patience, Eve reminded herself. “You said ‘the girl’ gave Mr. Pettibone the champagne for his toast.”

  “Oh, that girl. One of the servers.” Bambi lifted a shoulder, nuzzled the little dog. “She brought Boney a new glass so he could make his toast.”

  “Did he take it off her tray?”

  “No.” She pursed her lips, sniffled softly. “No, I remember she handed it to him and wished him a happy birthday. She said, ‘Happy birthday, Mr. Pettibone.’ Very politely, too.”

  “Did you know her? Have you employed her before?”

  “I use Mr. Markie, and he brings the servers. You can leave everything up to Mr. Markie. He’s just mag.”

  “What did she look like?”

  “Who?”

  God, give me the strength not to bitch-slap this moron. “The server, Bambi. The server who gave Boney the glass of champagne for his toast.”

  “Oh. I don’t know. Nobody really looks at servers, do they?” She said it with a fluttering confusion as Eve stared at her. “Tidy,” she said after a moment. “Mr. Markie insists on his staff presenting a neat appearance.”

  “Was she old, young, tall, short?”

  “I don’t know. She looked like one of the servers, that’s all. And they all look the same, really.”

  “Did your husband speak to her?”

  “He said thank you. Boney’s very polite, too.”

  “He didn’t appear to recognize her? The server,” Eve added quickly as Bambi’s mouth began to purse on what surely would have been another “Who?”

  “Why would he?”

  No one, Eve decided, could pretend to be this level of idiot. It had to be sincere. “All right. Do you know anyone who’d wish your husband harm?”

  “Everyone loved Boney. You just had to.”

  “Did you love Boney while he was married to his first wife?”

  Her eyes went bigger, rounder. “We never, ever cheated. Boney didn’t even kiss me until after he was divorced. He was a gentleman.”

  “How did you meet him?”

  “I worked at one of his flower shops. The one on Madison. He used to come in sometimes and look at the stock, and talk to us. To me,” she added with a trembling smile. “Then one day he came by just as I was getting off and offered to walk me home. He took my arm while we walked. He told me how he was getting a divorce and wondered if I’d have lunch with him sometime. I wondered if it was just a line—guys say stuff like that, you know, how they’re leaving their wife, or how she doesn’t make him happy, and all sorts of things just to get you to go to bed with them. I’m not stupid.”

  No, Eve thought, you redefine the word.

  “But Boney wasn’t like that. He never tried anything funny.”

  She sighed and began to rub her cheek against the dog’s fur. “He was romantic. After he was divorced we dated and he took me to really nice places and never tried anything funny then either. Finally I had to try something funny because he was just so cute and cuddly and handsome. And after that, he asked me to marry him.”

  “Did his first wife resent that?”

  “Probably. Who wouldn’t resent not having Boney for their own sweetie? But she was always very nice, and Boney never said anything bad about her.”

  “And his children.”

  “Well, I don’t think they liked me at first. But Boney said they’d come to love me because he did. And we never had a fight or anything.”

  “Big, happy family,” Eve repeated after another ten minutes with Bambi. “Everyone likes everybody and Pettibone is the original nice guy.”

  “Wife’s a dink,” Peabody offered.

  “The dink was still smart enough to hook a rich husband. Could be smart enough to put a little something extra in his birthday bubbly.” But she paused a moment at the top of the stairs to let various options play out in her mind.

  “Have to be really smart, and have nerves of iron to pull it off when she’s standing right next to him in front of a room full of well-wishers and witnesses. We’ll dig into her background a bit, see how much of that sugar plum bit is real and how much is an act. Anybody who lives in that much pink goes to the top of my short list.”

  “I thought it was kind of pretty, in an ‘I love being a girl’ sort of way.”

  “Sometimes you scare me, Peabody. Do a standard run on her to start. Bambi,” she added as she started down. “People who name their kid Bambi must know she’s going to grow up a dink. Now we get to play with Mr. Markie. Who comes up with this shit?”

  “We’ve got him and the catering staff in the kitchen area.”

  “Good. Let’s find out who gave Pettibone the champagne and wished him happy birthday.”

  As she started across the main floor to the kitchen, McNab jogged up behind her. “Dallas? ME’s here. Concurs with the MTs and the doc on-scene about the appearance of poison
ing. Can’t call it officially until they get the stiff back to the body shop and run some dead tests.”

  “Thanks for that colorful report, Detective. Relay to the ME that I want confirmation of cause of death ASAP. Go ahead and take a look at the incomings and outgoings on the house ’links for the last twenty-four hours, just in case someone got sloppy.”

  “I’m on it.” He managed to give Peabody a quick pat on the ass before splitting off.

  “Having your parents bunking with you should put the kabosh on playing grabass with McNab for the next little while.”

  “Oh, they’re not staying at my place. Said it was too small and they didn’t want to crowd me. Couldn’t change their minds. They’ll just stay in their camper. I told them they’re really not supposed to. City ordinances and stuff, but they just patted me on the head.”

  “Get them into a hotel, Peabody, before some uniform cites them.”

  “I’ll work on it soon as we get back.”

  They turned into the kitchen. It was big, done in blinding whites and sparkling silver. And at the moment, chaos reigned. Food in various stages of preparation was spread all over the counters. Dishes were stacked in towers, glassware in pyramids. Eve counted eight uniformed staff jammed into an eating nook and chattering away with the nervous energy crime scenes often brought out in witnesses.

  An enormous urn of coffee was being put to use by both cops and servers. One of her own uniforms was helping himself to a tray of fancy finger food and another was already hitting the dessert cart.

  It only took her presence to have the room falling into stillness, and silence.

  “Officers, if you can manage to tear yourselves away from the all-you-can-eat buffet, take posts outside the doors of both kitchen exits. As cause of death has not yet been officially called, I’ll remind you that you’re stuffing evidence in your faces. If necessary, I’ll have you both cut open so that evidence can be removed.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with my food.” A man stepped forward as the two uniforms rushed out. He was short, homely, with an olive complexion. His head was shaved and gleamed as smooth as an ice floe. He wore a white butcher’s apron over a formal black suit.

  “You’d be Markie?”

  “Mr. Markie,” he said with cold dignity. “I demand to know what’s going on. No one will tell us anything, just that we’re required to stay in here. If you’re in charge—”

  “I’m in charge. Lieutenant Dallas, and what’s going on is Walter Pettibone’s dead and I’m here to find out how and why.”

  “Well, Lieutenant Dallas, I can tell you that Mr. Pettibone didn’t meet his demise through any of my dishes. I won’t have any rumors regarding my food and my business bandied about. My reputation is unimpeachable.”

  “Cool your thrusters, Markie. No one’s accusing you of anything.” She held up a hand before he could speak and turned her attention to his staff. “Which one of you served Mr. Pettibone before his toast?”

  “It wasn’t any of us. We’ve been talking about it.”

  Eve studied the attractive Asian woman. “And you’d be?”

  “Sing-Yu. I was in the living area when it happened. But I was at the far end passing champagne so the guests in that section had glasses for Mr. Pettibone’s toast. And Charlie—” She tapped the shoulder of the lean black man beside her. “He was bringing in the crab puffs.”

  “I was working the terrace bar.” Another server raised a hand. “Robert McLean. And Laurie was working the terrace guests. We didn’t leave our station until we heard everyone shouting.”

  “I was in the kitchen.” Another man spoke up. “I’m, um, Don Clump. You remember, Mr. Markie? We were in here together when we heard the commotion.”

  “That’s correct.” Markie nodded. “I’d just sent Charlie out with the crab puffs, and was instructing Don to begin a pass with the stuffed mushrooms. Gwen was just coming in with empties, and we heard shouting.”

  “I have a witness who states that a female member of your staff handed Mr. Pettibone a glass of champagne just before he began his toast.”

  Gazes shifted, dropped.

  “It had to be Julie.” Sing-Yu spoke up again. “I’m sorry, Mr. Markie, but she’s the only one who could’ve done it, and she’s the only one who’s not here.”

  “Who’s Julie and why isn’t she here?” Eve demanded.

  “I don’t like my employees gossiping about one another,” Markie began.

  “This is a police investigation. Witness statements aren’t gossip, and I expect you and your staff to cooperate. Who is Julie?” Eve asked, turning to Sing-Yu.

  “She’s absolutely right.” Markie let out a long sigh, then moved over to pat Sing-Yu’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, my dear, I’m not angry with you. Julie Dockport,” he said to Eve. “She’s been with my company for two months. As to where she is, I can’t say. She must have slipped out in the confusion immediately following Mr. Pettibone’s collapse. It took me a few moments to realize there was a problem and to get from the kitchen to the living area. I didn’t see her. When the police arrived and told us to come in here, to remain in here, she didn’t come.”

  “She wearing this getup?” Eve nodded toward the trim black pants and starched white shirts of the serving staff.

  “Yes.”

  “Describe her.”

  “Medium build, I suppose, on the athletic side. Short red hair, attractive. About thirty, give or take a year one way or the other. I’d have to check my employment files to be exact on that.”

  “Peabody, take the staff to another area. Put a uniform on them, then go find Julie Dockport.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  When they filed out, Eve sat, gestured to Markie. “Now. Tell me what you know about this woman.”

  It wasn’t much. She heard words like competent, reliable, cooperative.

  “She applied for a position,” Markie went on. “Her references checked out. She’s been an excellent employee. I can only think she was upset and frightened about what happened here tonight and left.”

  They both glanced over as Peabody came back in. “I can’t locate her on the premises, Lieutenant.”

  “Do a run, get her address. I want her picked up.” She got to her feet. “You can go.”

  “My staff and I will pack up the food and supplies.”

  “No, you won’t. This is a crime scene. It stays as is for now. We’ll contact you when it’s clear for you to clean house.”

  She took the son and daughter next. With their spouses they were huddled together at one end of the table in the formal dining room. Four pairs of eyes red and swollen with weeping turned to Eve.

  The man who stood, bracing one hand on the table, was light complected with hair of a dull, dense blond worn short and straight. He had a soft chin and lips that all but disappeared when he pressed them together in a grim line.

  “What’s happening? Who are you? We need some answers.”

  “Wally.” The woman beside him was also blonde, but her hair was brighter and upswept. “You’ll only make it worse.”

  “How can it be worse?” he demanded. “My father’s dead.”

  “I’m Lieutenant Dallas. I’m very sorry for your loss, and apologize for the delay in speaking with you, Mr. Pettibone.”

  “Walter C. Pettibone IV,” he told her. “My wife, Nadine.” He turned his hand under the one the blonde had laid over his, gripped tight. “My sister, Sherilyn, and her husband, Noel Walker. Why are we being kept in here this way? We need to be with my father.”

  “That’s not possible at the moment. There are things that need to be done to get you those answers you need. Sit down, Mr. Pettibone.”

  “What happened to my father?” It was Sherilyn who spoke. She was a petite brunette, and Eve thought she was probably remarkably pretty under most circumstances. Now her face was ravaged from weeping. “Could you just tell us, please?” She reached out, taking her brother’s free hand, and her husband’s, forming them into a unit.
“What happened to Daddy?”

  “The cause of death hasn’t been confirmed.”

  “I heard the MTs.” She took a long deep breath, and her voice strengthened. “I heard them say he was poisoned. That can’t possibly be true.”

  “We’ll know very soon. It would help if you’d tell me what each of you were doing, where you were in the room when Mr. Pettibone collapsed.”

  “We were right there, standing right beside him,” Sherilyn began. “Everyone was standing there—”

  “Sherry.” Noel Walker brought their joined hands to his lips. It was a gesture Roarke often made, Eve noted. One of comfort, of love, of solidarity.

  He turned his attention to Eve. His hair was dark like his wife’s and waved around a strong, handsome face. “Walt was making a toast. Sentimental and sweet. He was a sentimental and sweet man. Bambi was at his right side. Sherry was next to her and I was at her right. Wally was directly at his left, with Nadine beside him. When he finished his toast, he took a drink of champagne. We all did. Then he began to choke. I believe Wally slapped him on the back, the way you do. Bambi grabbed at him when he staggered. He pulled at his collar as if it was too tight, then fell forward.”

  He glanced at Wally as if for confirmation.

  “He was gasping,” Wally continued. “We turned him over on his back. Peter Vance, he’s a doctor, pushed through the people who’d crowded around. And my father—he had some sort of seizure. Peter said to call the MTs. Nadine ran to do so.”

  “Was he able to speak to any of you?”

  “He never said anything,” Sherilyn answered. “He looked at me.” Her voice cracked again. “He looked right at me just before he fell. Everyone was talking at once. It all happened so fast, there wasn’t time to say anything.”

  “Where did he get the drink?”

  “From a tray, I suppose,” Wally said. “The caterers had been passing champagne since guests began to arrive at seven.”

  “No.” Sherilyn shook her head slowly. “No, one of the servers handed it to him. She wasn’t carrying a tray, just the one flute. She took his nearly empty glass and gave him a full one. She wished him happy birthday.”