“I don’t know, but she was pissed, and didn’t care who heard because there was crew milling around.”
“It’s like I’ve always said. You’re a bitch with a nasty temper and no class.”
Peabody sighed, smiled. “But not an underling.”
“With that settled,” Eve said as she pulled behind a black-and-white, “maybe we can check out this DB.”
“A visit to a vid set, a DB, and dinner with celebrities. It’s a really good day.”
Not for Cecil Silcock.
His day had ended early on the leopard-print tiles of his elaborate kitchen. He lay there, blood from the head wound running river to lake over the black-spotted gold. It made the floor look a little too much like a terminally wounded animal, in Eve’s opinion.
Cecil was definitely terminally wounded. Blood also soaked into the tissue-thin white cashmere robe he’d put on sometime before his head had made contact with a blunt object of some weight, then the unfortunately patterned tiles. From the gash down his forehead, Eve figured Cecil also made contact with the edge of the gold- topped black cooking island.
The rest of the kitchen, the dining and living areas, master bedroom, guest bed and bath were as spotless, accessorized and
“No sign of forced entry,” the officer on the door told Eve. “We got the vic’s spouse in the bedroom there. He says he was out of town the last two days, got home—early, wasn’t supposed to come in until this afternoon—and found the body.”
“Where’s his suitcase?”
“In the bedroom.”
“Let’s get the security discs.”
“The spouse said the security was off when he arrived. He claims the vic often forgot to set it.”
“Find their security station, check anyway.” Eve tossed her Seal-It back in her field kit and crouched by the body. “Let’s confirm ID, get TOD, Peabody. He took a hard blow here, left side of the head, across the temple, eye socket. Something wide, heavy, and flat.”
“Vic is confirmed as Cecil Silcock, age fifty-six, of this address. Married to Paul Havertoe, four years. He’s the owner/operator of Good Times—party planning company.”
“No more good times for him.” Sitting back on her heels, Eve looked around. “No forced entry. And the place looks like it’s been cleaned and fluffed by magic fairies. He’s wearing a—bet it’s platinum—wedding band with a big fat diamond. Robbery unlikely as a motive here. The jewelry, plus I can see plenty of easily carried top-scale electronics.”
“TOD ten-thirty-six. Dressed like this, no forced entry, he had to know the killer. He let the killer in, walked back here, maybe to make coffee or something. Whack, and Good Times Cecil is no more.”
“Could be just like that. Or could be, dressed like this, Cecil had company while his spouse was out of town, which out-of-towning we will confirm. Comes out to make a nice breakfast, company whacks him. Or spouse returns, realizes Cecil has not been a good boy, whacks him.”
The uniform came back in. “The security’s been off for twenty-eight hours, Lieutenant. We’ve got nothing for last night or this morning.”
“Okay. Start the knock-on-doors. Let’s see if anyone saw anything.”
Fitting on microgoggles, Eve took a careful study of the body. “Cecil’s as clean as the house. Smells like lemons.” She leaned her face to the face of the dead, took another sniff. “But there’s a little coffee here, too. Had himself a shower and a cup before the whack. No visible defensive wounds, or other trauma. Takes the hit, goes down, smacking the edge of the island here, then takes another hit, other temple, on the tiles. It’s odd, isn’t it?”
“It is?”
“Everything’s so clean, so tidy.”
“The vic was neat?”
“Maybe. Probably.” Eve took off the goggles, stood. “There’s no AutoChef. What kind of place is this?” She poked in the fridge. “Everything very fresh here, and also sparkly clean.” She began opening cupboards, drawers. “Lots of pots, pans, gadgets, matching dishes, wineglasses, blah, blah.” She pulled out a large, heavy skillet. Wide and flat-bottomed. “Got weight.”
“Oh, my gran’s got one of those. Cast iron. She swears by it, came down from her gran.”
Eve studied the skillet, crouched again, goggles on, to study the wound on the side of Cecil’s head. Pulling out another tool from the kit, she took a quick measure. Nodded.
“Betcha. Seal and tag for the sweepers. Let’s see if there’s any of Cecil on here. So, Cecil has company—or gets it—then they come in here, behind the cooking island. But there’s no sign of cooking—and since there’s no AutoChef like any other civilized kitchen in the known world, he’d have to use a pan, tools. And what about coffee?”
“That’s an espresso-type machine there. You put the whole beans in, water, and it grinds and brews.”
“But it’s clean and empty.”
“Maybe he didn’t have time before the whack to prep.”
“Uh-uh. He’s got a touch of coffee breath. He didn’t just come in here with the killer, and get smacked with a heavy object. I’m betting the cast-iron deal is the murder weapon. If he got that out, where’s the other stuff, whatever he was going to put in it to cook? If he’s arguing with somebody, is he thinking about making breakfast? Why doesn’t the killer leave the murder weapon out or take it with him? Instead he cleans it up, stores it—and in what appears to be its proper place.
“If you’re getting breakfast, what’s the first thing you do?”
“Get the coffee,” Peabody said.
“Everybody gets the coffee, and Cecil tells me he did just that. But there’s no coffee made, no cup or mug.”
Lips pursed, eyes scanning, Peabody tried to see it as Eve did. “Maybe he or they had already eaten, cleaned up. Then had the argument.”
“Could be, but if so, was this pan still out handy for the whack? Everything’s put away all perfect, but this is within handy reach. Because this?” She lifted the now-sealed skillet. “It’s a weapon of opportunity. Get pissed, grab, whack. You wouldn’t open the drawer, take it out of the stack, select the weapon, then whack.”
Peabody followed the dots. “You think the spouse did it, then cleaned up, then called the cops.”
“I wonder how Havertoe got home. It’s time to have a chat.”
Eve released the uniform sitting with Havertoe to join the canvass. Like the kitchen, the master bedroom could have stood as an ad for Stylish Urban Home. From the sleek silver posts and zebra-print spread—with its carefully arranged mound of black and white pillows—the mirror gleam of bureaus, the strange angled lines of the art to the sinuous vase holding a single, spiky red flower that looked to Eve’s eye as if it might hide sharp, needle- thin teeth under its petals.
In the sitting area in front of the wide terrace doors, Paul Havertoe huddled on a silver-backed sofa with red cushions, and clutched a soggy handkerchief.
Eve judged him about twenty years his dead spouse’s junior. His smooth, handsome face carried a pale gold tan that showed off well against the luxurious sweep of his caramel-colored hair. He wore trim, pressed jeans and a spotless white shirt over a body that Eve assumed put in solid health-club time.
His eyes when they lifted to Eve’s were the color of plums and puffy from weeping.
“I’m Lieutenant Dallas, and this is Detective Peabody. I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr. Havertoe.”
“Cecil’s dead.”
Under the rawness of the tears, Eve caught hints of molasses and magnolia.
“I know this is a difficult time, but we need to ask you some questions.”
“Because Cecil’s dead.”
“Yes. We’re recording this, Mr. Havertoe, for your protection. And I’m going to read you your rights so you’re clear on everything. Okay?”
“Do you have to?”
“It’s better if I do. We’ll make this as quick as we can. Is there anyone you’d like us to contact for you—a
