“I know. I’m a cop.”
“But she won’t budge on that. She could use family, but my hands are tied.”
Eve lifted her eyebrows. “And you’re implying mine aren’t.”
“I’m just saying that maybe, during the course of your investigation, you’d have reason to contact them.”
“Actually, it’s on my list. I’d prefer that she give the nod, but I’ve got some questions.”
“Sooner the better. That’s my medical and personal opinion. She’ll have to be released in a couple days, even if I postpone it. She shouldn’t be alone.”
“I’ll feel out the family, get a gauge.”
“Great. Now, speaking as a medical professional, I advise you to go home, get some sleep. You look like hell.”
“Good advice. Bill me,” Eve said and walked away to take it.
7
Eve started her drive on auto to do a quick search of Olsen’s and Tredway’s files for a mention of the caterer. If she stayed on auto, she’d likely nod off, then end up sleeping in the car parked outside the house.
She’d rather be in bed.
She drove across town, cursing the traffic to help stay alert. Then let out a long sigh of relief when she drove through the gates.
Night had fallen when she’d done her second round in the crime scene, and low, sulky clouds smothered moon and stars. But the house, with all its turrets and towers, its dignified gray stone, glowed in welcome.
She wound up the drive, parked in front of the entrance, and let out one more sigh before grabbing her file bag. She stepped out of the car into the bitter wind and thought: Winter sucks. Pushed her way through the wind to the door, and stepped inside to warmth and light and quiet.
Where the bony figure of Summerset loomed in the foyer with the pudge of a cat at his feet.
Galahad trotted to her to slip and slide through her legs.
As she shrugged out of her coat, she eyed Summerset and thought of the ghoul costume.
“Where were you on the night of November twenty-eight?” she demanded.
He arched one elegant eyebrow. “I’ll have to check my calendar.”
“Never mind.” She pulled off her hat, her scarf, tossed them on the newel post with her coat. “That asshole needed makeup to pull off the ghoul. You’re a natural.”
Ridiculously pleased she’d had the energy and brainpower for some decent snark, she started upstairs. The cat bounded up with her.
She thought of her newly redone office with its already beloved command center—with an AutoChef that would provide coffee right there. But calculated she didn’t have the energy or brainpower to so much as set up her murder board, much less review her notes or add to them.
Instead, she aimed for the bedroom.
And there it was, the big, glorious bed.
She’d been fine with the way the bedroom looked before. Hell, a lot more than fine, she thought now, plus she’d gotten used to it.
But she couldn’t fault the newly painted walls in their soft, relaxing gray, the deeper tones used on the thick molding of the ceiling to sort of showcase the height of it, the punch of the sky window. She could hardly bitch about the deep blue sofa in the sitting area—the longer, wider sofa.
She didn’t know squat about floor plans and decor, really, but she couldn’t dig up a complaint about the arrangement of chairs—and the rich tones of them—that all but insisted you sit down, relax, and let the world go somewhere else for a while.
Even she could appreciate the intricately carved doors closing off a slick little bar, including AutoChef and friggie. Maybe she thought the expansive closet/dressing room was over the top, but it didn’t detract from the whole. And she knew both she and Roarke would enjoy the addition of a terrace outside of what the decorator called atrium doors.
But the real star of the room, in her book, was that big bed with its fancifully carved head- and footboard, all dressed in soft bronze and copper tones with mounds of fluffy pillows.
She didn’t stumble to it, but it was close. Then fell across it, facedown, and dropped straight into sleep.
Galahad gathered himself, leaped up. He padded across the duvet, sniffed at Eve’s hair. Apparently satisfied, he stretched himself across her waist as if to hold her in place. And began to purr.
Roarke walked in moments later.
“Down for the count, is she?” he said as Galahad blinked his bicolored eyes.
Shaking his head, Roarke moved to the bed, crouched, pulled off Eve’s boots. She didn’t so much as stir.
He lit the fire, sat to pull off his own boots. Snagging the cashmere throw from the foot of the bed, he tossed it over his wife. Waited for the cat’s head to pop out.