Festive in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “And when did you become aware of these circumstances?”

  “This afternoon. Catiana contacted me, told me I needed to come home as soon as possible. I came home—by one-thirty—and Tella told me what had happened.”

  “I thought I’d cheated.” Tears swirled in Martella’s eyes. “I thought I’d cheated on Lance, and I couldn’t understand how I could have. I tried to tell myself it was just an awful mistake, just sex, and at a weak moment, but it made me sick inside. Then you contacted me, and told me there’d been something in the tea, that he’d put something in the tea he’d given me, and . . .”

  “She fell apart,” Catiana said. “I was here, and when she got off the ’link, she went to pieces. She told me everything, and when she was calm enough, I told her what had happened with me. I gave her a soother and got in touch with Lance.”

  “You also worked with Ziegler,” Eve said to Schubert. “You had no indication prior to today of this incident with your wife?”

  “None. I wouldn’t have thought of it, considered it. I knew something was wrong. You’ve been trying too hard,” he murmured to Martella. “I knew there was something, but I never considered . . . If I had, if I’d known what he did, I’d have killed him.”

  “Lance!”

  “I’d have killed him,” he repeated, his voice stone cold, a mirror of his eyes. “I’d have beaten him to pulp with my own hands. I wish I could. She’s naive, kind, trusting,” he said to Eve. “He took advantage of all of that, and the fact that we’d had a stupid fight, and I went out of town on business before we’d resolved it. He raped my wife. I’d have gone after him, and I’d have beaten him into the ground for it.”

  “Did you go to his apartment?”

  “I don’t even know where it is. But I’d have found out. No,” he corrected, fury alive in every word. “No, I’d have gone to where he works, where he’s so proud of himself, where he preens and struts, and I’d have taken him apart, in public. Humiliated and hurt him, the way he humiliated and hurt my wife. He raped her, then he extorted money from her. I didn’t kill him, more’s the pity. But I’d shake the hand of the person who did.”

  “I should never have let him come here. I shouldn’t have—”

  “You’re not to blame.” Schubert turned his wife toward him, took her shoulders gently. “You’re not to blame for this, for any of it.” He drew Martella in, looked at Eve. “She’s not to blame.”

  “No,” Eve agreed, “she’s not. There were others, Martella. We’re finding a lot of others. They’re not to blame, either.”

  She let it all circle in her mind on the drive home, hoping she’d find a solid place for a theory to land. But the ground remained too soft.

  Too many people, she thought, with too many motives. Alibis that she imagined could be toppled or at least shaken with enough of a push.

  Maybe it was the season of goodwill toward men—not that she’d found that ever held fast—but with Ziegler ill will seemed the primary emotion.

  And damn it, she felt some ill will of her own. She wanted to shut the door on the investigation—and the killer—tie it all up so she could enjoy the festivities, the holiday, the lights, the tree, the time with Roarke.

  Throughout her childhood Christmas had been empty or painful or just lacking. A day other kids rushed out of bed to tear off paper and ribbon and find shiny dreams realized.

  Until she’d been eight, her best gift had been if her father had been too drunk to knock her around. Or worse.

  And after she’d killed Richard Troy—to save herself from the “or worse”—she’d been no one’s child. A foster, an add-on, a token. Part of that was probably her own attitude, she admitted as she drove through the gates. But she’d had pretty bad luck in the system. State school had been bland and gray, but easier.

  But now, she had home—as bright and shiny as it got. She had Roarke, the epitome of all gifts. And for reasons that often baffled her, she had friends. More than she sometimes—most times—knew what to do with, but they’d added dimension to her life while she wasn’t looking.

  Thinking of her victim, of what he’d done to fill his own life, she found herself grateful for what she had.

  Even—when she walked in and saw him—Summerset.

  Sort of.

  The cat pranced over to her, jingling all the way. She supposed it had been Summerset who’d added the bow and bell to Galahad’s collar.

  She’d have said something snarky, but the cat appeared to enjoy the adornment.

  “The first team of decorators will be here at eight A.M. sharp,” Summerset informed her. “They’ll begin in the ballroom. A second team will arrive by ten to complete work on the terraces. Catering arrives at four in the afternoon, and waitstaff at six for a run-through. Other auxiliary staff will arrive by six-thirty.”

  “Okay.”

  “Your stylist will arrive by six, giving her ninety minutes to deal with you. You’ll be finished, prepared to greet guests at seven-fifty-five.”

  “I don’t want ninety minutes, for God’s sake, with Trina. Who needs ninety minutes to get ready for a party?”

  Eyebrows raised, Summerset looked down his nose.

  “The arrangements have been made. The schedule is set. The gifts you brought home are wrapped, labeled, and under the tree in the master suite. What you’ve had wrapped or are in the process of inexpertly wrapping for Roarke remain in the Blue Room.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What were you doing in there?”

  “My duties. Do you want the rest of those gifts wrapped and brought down to the tree in the main parlor.”

  “I’ll do it.” Her back stiffened. “I know the rules. I’m supposed to do it. There’s still time. Just . . . stay out of there until I’m finished.”

  Flustered, she shot up the stairs with the belled cat jing-a-linging after her.

  She hadn’t forgotten Roarke’s gifts—God knew she’d squeezed her brain to putty to come up with things the richest man in the free world wouldn’t have and might want—but she’d mostly pushed aside the reality of wrapping them up.

  Now she had to do that, order decorators around, deal with Trina, make nice with a houseful of guests, and, oh yeah, close a murder case.

  Maybe she could hire someone (not Summerset) to finish wrapping Roarke’s stuff. It wasn’t really cheating if she paid. People did it all the time, didn’t they?

  In fact, how did she know Roarke personally, physically wrapped up whatever he got her?

  Stewing over it, she marched into the bedroom where Roarke stood pulling on a steel-gray sweater.

  “Do you wrap my gifts yourself?”

  He finished pulling on the sweater, shook back his hair, eyed her. “Isn’t that what elves are for? Why would I put good, enterprising elves out of work?”

  “That’s right.” She jabbed a finger at him. “That’s fucking A right!”

  “I’m glad we agree.”

  “Where do you get the elves?”

  “Each must find one’s own.” He walked over, caught her face in his hands, kissed her. “Hello, Lieutenant.”

  “Yeah, hey. Let me ask you something else.”

  “I’m here to serve.”

  “What’s the first thing you’d do if you found out I’d cheated on you with . . . an elf. A sexy, buff elf.”

  “The first thing?”

  “Yeah, go with the gut.”

  “I’d toss you out on your ear, naked as I’d have burned all your clothes along with the rest of your belongings.”

  Reasonable, she thought.

  “What if things were reversed, financially, and the big bulk of the dough was mine.”

  He flicked a finger over the dent in her chin. “What difference does that make? You’d be naked on the street, weeping as you begged for forgiveness that would never come.”


  “Harsh, but fair.”

  Amusement lived in those wild blue eyes, but she seriously wanted that gut instinct.

  “Okay. What if you found out I’d been duped, slipped an illegal so the elf could bang me without my consent, but without my objection as I was under the influence?”

  “I would beat the elf into elfin ooze immediately and mercilessly, then . . . acid, I believe,” he said after a moment’s thought. “Acid would be the final touch, poured liberally over the ooze.”

  “Nice. With your fists—the beating into ooze part?”

  “Do I love you?”

  “Yeah, you do.” She gave his chest a light punch. “Sap.”

  “Then it has to be my fists. He put his hands on you. Mine have to be on him.”

  “Yeah. Yeah.” She sat, pulled off her boots. “Yeah. They love each other.”

  “Who are they?”

  “The Schuberts—Martella and Lance. The vic dosed her, and he’s on my list. But he’s down the bottom because, yeah, I think he’d have confronted Ziegler if he’d known. I think he’d have hunted him down like a sick dog, and I think he’d have gotten physical. But not the grab-a-blunt-object physical. If he’d known she’d rolled with Ziegler, whether or not he’d known about the date-rape drug—he’d have used his fists. That’s how he strikes me. Still, I have to consider.”

  She got up to dig out thick socks. “She’s the sister of another of Ziegler’s marks—though the sister—Natasha Quigley—was willing, and paid for sex. I don’t like the husband—Quigley’s. He’s got a wussy, entitled thing that rubs me wrong. I can’t tell if it’s just that or if he’s sending off bells. But I want a good dig on his financials.”

  “Ah. Playtime for me.”

  “It would help me out, if you’ve got time for it.”

  “Why don’t we have a drink, some food, and you can tell me more about it?”

  Her first thought was to get everything down, write it out, then she realized she might have it more concise after rolling it around with him.

  “Works for me. Oh, I nearly forgot. We got a Christmas present.”

  She dug into her coat pocket, took out the box. “From Feeney. He warned me his wife’s made us a bowl, but this is from him to both of us.”

  “I find his wife’s pottery charming.”

  “Yeah, I know, since you actually find places for it instead of accidently breaking it or hiding it in some dark closet. Go figure. But I think you’re really going to like this.”

  He opened the box, took out the glass, and simply stared at it.

  “I had the same reaction. He said he wanted us to have it, to remember, to be able to see it when things got heavy. He said he was really proud of us. And like that. I didn’t really know what to say.”

  “It means a great deal,” Roarke murmured. “A very great deal that he’d do this, think of doing it.”

  “I know. And he got that. He said he thought we should keep it at home, because if I put it in my office, it was sort of like bragging.”

  Roarke’s lips curved. “Trust Feeney.”

  “I figure he’s right, that it should stay here. And I thought, not my office, not yours, because it’s ours together. I thought maybe it should stay in here because this is our space. Especially ours, I mean.”

  “Yes. Especially ours.” After a glance, Roarke moved over to a table in the sitting area, set the gift down. “How’s that?”

  “It’s good.”

  She joined hands with him, started out. The cat raced ahead, ringing cheerfully. “Did Summerset put that stupid bell on him?”

  “I put that stupid bell on him.”

  “You?” She shot him a stunned glance. “Seriously?”

  “It was a weak moment,” Roarke admitted. “Give him a bit of the festive, I thought. And now he’s ringing like a mad thing, most of it on purpose to my mind. He’s enjoying it.”

  “The bow, too?”

  “I said it was a weak moment. I had to put in several short appearances at a number of office parties today. Obviously, it lowered my resistance.”

  “How much did you drink?” she wondered.

  “Not at all, but I will now.” In her office he opened the wall slot, chose a bottle of wine. “A good, hearty red. How about a steak? All the mingling between meetings meant I missed lunch altogether. I’m starving.”

  “I could go for steak. It’s the first thing I ever ate in this house. Why did I remember that now?”

  “Holiday sentiment.”

  “I love you.”

  He set the bottle aside, stepped over to gather her in. “It’s always lovely to hear you say it.”

  “I thought of it today when I was listening to, watching the Schuberts. They love each other. I could see it, clear as water, because I can feel it, all the way through me. So I don’t think they’re involved with Ziegler’s murder. Which is stupid because loving each other doesn’t mean one of them didn’t bash Ziegler then shove a knife in him.”

  “But you don’t think so.”

  “I don’t. But I’m a little worried about that holiday sentiment. I never used to have it.”

  “A by-product of having love, and home.” He drew her back. “And life.”

  “I guess so. I’ll get dinner.”

  “No, you deal with the wine and I’ll get dinner, or else there’ll be nothing on the plates but steak and potatoes.”

  “Why does there have to be anything else?”

  “Because I love you.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” But she opened the wine, poured for both of them.

  “Let me tell you about Martella’s social secretary.”

  As they sat, she went over it from the start.

  “I believed her,” Eve said. “There was something so upfront and clear-eyed about it. And still, it’s so damned convenient. No way I can prove or disprove what she told me, and it lays on the pattern, gives Martella, even the husband, some cover.”

  “And still you believe her.”

  “Do I just want to? Maybe I’m losing my cynical edge.”

  “Never.” Laughing, he toasted her. “You’re a cop through and through, Lieutenant. Your cynicism and your instincts remain solid. To me, the story sounds plausible, and slides right into the pattern of your victim’s behavior. She’s attractive, this Catiana?”

  “A stunner. More a stunner than her employer, and I got no vibe—not even a sniff of one—of interest between her and the husband.”

  “But you’re going to run her.”

  “Sure.”

  “There’s my point.” He tapped his glass to hers. “Your cynicism remains intact.”

  “Whew. So the sister.” Eve cut more steak, considered it another miracle she could indulge in actual cow meat on any sort of regular basis. “Yesterday she says nothing went on between her and Ziegler. I let it go because we got information from Martella, but it didn’t jibe, not altogether. And it fit less when we confirmed Ziegler used the drug on several women, did the extracurricular with several more for pay. And the straight sex for pay? He exploited female clients with money, and looks, and with about ten to fifteen years on him. Rich older women with time and money to spend. Natasha Quigley fit that criteria, but she wants to say nothing happened?”

  “Not all rich, married, somewhat older women fall in bed with a gigolo.”

  “Gigolo.” Experimentally, she let it roll over her tongue. “That word’s too fun and fancy for Ziegler.”

  “You prefer?”

  “Scumfuck, but back to the point. Sure, not all rich, married, somewhat older women fall, but she fit his pattern of mark right down the line. So if she’d said, yeah, he made the moves, but she doesn’t pay for sex, or she gets so much sex at home she can’t handle more, or anything that rang true, okay. A dozen ways she could have played it, but she played it w
rong, so I knew damn well she’d done it with him.”

  She ate, lifted her glass, then grinned. “Hey, you’re right. Cynicism intact.”

  “And instincts correct, I take it.”

  “Yeah, she spilled it once I popped the cork. Rough patch in the marriage. That’s par for the course, right? I don’t get using that as an excuse to play around.”

  Playfully, he walked his fingers up the back of her hand. “Which is why you’re not naked on the street, my darling Eve.”

  “Two can say that. Anyway, made a mistake, blah blah. Trying to fix the marriage, please don’t tell my clueless spouse or he’ll leave me and so on. Tells me he never dosed her, but she willingly accepted, booked a hotel suite, paid him for services rendered. But she was done with it when she and her husband decided to try to patch things up, and how they’re taking a trip after the holidays.”

  “She thinks lying to him, deceiving him about this, will improve things?”

  Pleased he had the same reaction, the same question, she scooped up a bite of some sort of creamy potato. “A lot of people think that way. When I nudged her on what would he do if he knew, she claimed he’s not violent. But there was a little hesitation. And with some checking I found he’s got a quick fuse. Nothing really physical, but a lot of mouth that’s gotten him in trouble.

  “And he’s an asshole.”

  “What sort? There are so many kinds,” Roarke pointed out.

  “That’s so true. Misogyny, which is just a fancy word for a man who treats women like props or lesser conveniences. He was nervous when we talked to him, but snotty, too. I don’t think he cared for being interrogated by a couple of ‘girls.’”

  “Well now, he’ll rue the day.”

  “Which is fancy talk for I’ll kick his ass in the box if I can get him there. Which leads me to looking for money. Most of it’s the wife’s. So a guy like that has a rich wife, I just bet he’s got some hidden away so he never ends up naked in the street. And if he’s got some hidden away, just maybe we can find withdrawals that may indicate he was paying Ziegler to be quiet about something. Or that he has a skirt or skirts on the side for those rough patches. Hotel rooms or gifts, or a little love nest. Something.”