“What’s this about?” she said, not budging.
“May I come in?” He took a step forward.
She fell back with a frown and even that looked good on her. He’d never seen hair and eyes that matched before, the black of ebony, of sunless space, of the slate on the roof. Of the inside of Erik’s cave. She played it up, too; every article of clothing was black as well, button-down tucked into jeans, belt, shoes. As in the parking lot on Monday, everything fit her body so creaselessly that he could have speculated about her underwear. But he was better than that.
She probably wouldn’t know it but the shoes were a dead giveaway that she wasn’t from around here. All Alaskans kicked their shoes off at the door. Christmas at Grandma’s house, the entryway looked like a shoe store.
The interior of this house looked the farthest thing from a shoe store, and the farthest thing from Grandma’s house for that matter. The windows were floor-to-ceiling and wall-to-wall, and if there was a contest to who had more square feet of glass she would have beaten him and Wy and Gabe McGuire and Jeff’s brewpub all together. The view was of course spectacular because it seemed every view in Blewestown was and because he had the feeling that this woman never settled for less than the best.
Next to the view, the rest of the house shouldn’t have mattered but it was obvious that it did to the person who had built it. Most of it was covered in stone. There was a sort of navy blue slate on the floor, the countertops were brown speckled granite, the backsplash was white marble, and the fireplace surround was a broad strip of—amethyst? The hearth was a block of rose quartz, and the fireplace mantel and the windowsills were green jade.
It was Moria. It was the Hall of the Mountain Kings. It was the mine of the Seven Dwarves. “Dig, dig, dig, with a shovel and a pick,” Liam said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“What a spectacular room,” he said, smiling again as hard as he could.
Her eyes narrowed. “I know you, don’t I?”
“Not formally, no. We, ah, passed in the parking lot of the brewpub on Monday.”
“Oh. Ah. Yes. What’s up, Sergeant? I don’t begin every day with a visit from the troopers.” She checked her phone. “I don’t have long, I’m afraid. I have a meeting in town in half an hour.”
She hadn’t asked him to sit and he had a lively enough sense of self-preservation not to allow himself to get too comfortable in this house. “It’s not good news, I’m afraid. Erik Berglund is dead.”
She went very still for a moment. “But I just saw him Monday night.”
“Yes, I know. It’s why I’m here.”
“But he’s only forty years old.”
“Yes. His death was not from natural causes.”
Her eyes widened a fraction but otherwise she gave nothing away. “You mean someone killed him?”
“Yes.”
Her disbelief was manifest. “Murder?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Why would anyone bother?”
The invaluable Ms. Petroff had provided a thumbnail bio. Thirty-eight, unmarried, no children, graduated with a degree in civil engineering, had spent all her working life with RPetCo in Asia and South America, now head of operations in Alaska. Maybe she was just that cold. He made a pretense of consulting the notes app on his phone. “You were one of the guests at Gabe McGuire’s party Monday evening.”
“So was Erik.”
“Yes, and preliminary evidence suggests that he died last Monday night or early Tuesday morning. Which makes the guests at the party the last people to see him alive.”
“Other than the murderer.”
“Other than the murderer,” he said with a nod. “I understand that you had a personal relationship with Mr. Berglund.”
“I did.”
He waited. So did she. “Would you care to elaborate?”
“We were occasional bed partners,” she said. “It was never more serious than that.”
“How long did it last?”
“A month, perhaps.”
“Was it over?”
She shrugged. “It is now. Obviously.”
He was a little taken aback and tried not to show it. “Did you quarrel?”
Her smile was sharp and beautiful, although her dark eyes retained a perceptible wariness. “We had our differences.”
“Because you’re the head of RPetCo, and because RPetCo wants to drill for oil in Chungasqak Bay, and Erik might have thrown a stumbling block in your way?”
“Primarily. But Erik posed a very minor threat. The state of Alaska has always looked favorably on resource extraction.”
Given the amount of money RPetCo donated in local elections, that was a given. “And your fields on the North Slope are drying up.”
She nodded. “And, as you say, our fields on the North Slope are drying up.”
“Did the two of you meet here? Or in town?”
She smirked. “Here. Obviously.”
“Why obviously?”
“He was living in a dry cabin. I don’t do dry cabins.”
Liam glanced at the amethyst hearth. “Obviously.” Her eyes narrowed. “Do you know where his cabin is?”
“No.”
“When did you leave the party Monday night, Ms. Garland?”
“Domenica, please.” She strolled forward, so far as he could tell solely so he could get a whiff of her perfume. “I arrived at six on the dot and left at ten-thirty, also on the dot. I was the first to leave.”
“You’re very exact.”
“I’m a scheduler, Sergeant. I had to be home by eleven because I had a phone call scheduled with London then, which is eight a.m. their time.” She held up her phone. “I keep everything on my calendar, should you require data to back up my word.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary just yet.” He tacked on the last two words just to see her reaction. There was none. A very cool customer, Domenica Garland. “I appreciate your time, Ms. Garland. I may need to get back to you with more questions as the case progresses. May I have your phone number?” He held up
