“Did he?”

  “Offered help. Someone for Julian to talk to as he worked his way through those issues. And Brant went to bat for him with the producer, the director putting the Red Horse sequel together. If Julian stays clean and clear, he’ll play Roarke again in the sequel. He and Brant didn’t run in the same circles, not really, but Brant reached out and stood up. That’s Brant. I just wanted you to know.”

  When he left with Peabody, Eve looked up at the classy, coffered ceiling.

  Brant Fitzhugh might’ve been a solid, stand-up guy, she thought. But he was still very dead.

  3

  Dolby could’ve given the colorful McNab a run for it in his scarlet skin pants, the sunburst collarless shirt, the black vest with its silver buckles, and the black high-tops with scarlet laces.

  Like McNab, he wore an ear full of tiny hoops, and also sported a fancy wrist unit with a red band. His hair fell to his shoulders in tight black curls offset by a single bright red braid wound from his forehead, over the crown, and down his back.

  He had skin like polished oak, so his eyes, clear as blue glass, seemed to pop out of a face with razor-sharp angles.

  He carried a glass of wine in a hand that trembled.

  “They said it was okay if I had a drink.” His voice—baritone, faintly Midwestern—shook, like his hand. “Nobody will let me see Eliza. She’ll need me.”

  “She’s with Ms. Bowen.”

  He took a deep breath. “Okay. Okay, but she still needs me. I need to be strong.” He sat, took a long, deep drink of wine. “I need to pull myself together and be strong for her. It wasn’t an accident or a stroke or something. People are talking, and saying it wasn’t an accident. But that doesn’t make any sense. And I don’t understand how Brant could be dead.”

  “You work for Ms. Lane.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

  He closed those blue-glass eyes, made a little humming sound in his throat as he took three steady breaths.

  “Strong,” he said, and opened his eyes again. “I was a wardrobe assistant—low rung—when she did All’s Fair on Broadway. And her personal assistant just couldn’t handle it, couldn’t keep up, and Eliza expects you to keep up, right? So she said, ‘How about working for me, Dolby,’ and I’m, like, ‘Bet your ass.’”

  His lips curved a little, and he put his fingertips to his mouth as if to hold back the quick smile. “I actually said that, and she just laughed. I can keep up, and I tell her straight when she asks for my opinion. ‘That color sucks the life out of you,’ or, ‘Don’t mention Gino when you have lunch with Mina because they’re over.’ And I know when she needs a neck rub or wants some quiet time. I help her rehearse, make sure she has her favorite flowers, know when to tell everyone to clear out so she and Brant can have a romantic dinner at home.”

  He paused, drank again. “Brant. It had to be an accident or something that just went wrong inside him. He’s the sweetest man in the world.”

  “He and Ms. Lane—did they have any problems?”

  “You mean like marriage stuff?” His curls swung when he shook his head. “They were like a fairy tale, I swear. Always doing little things for each other. Big stuff’s all that, but it’s the little things that count. I don’t know how she’s going to get through this.”

  His eyes watered up again. “They loved each other so much! She was like his queen. She’d say how he always made her feel like the center of the world, and he was her knight in the shiniest armor. He was like a dad to me.”

  He swiped at a tear. “I know that sounds weird, because Eliza’s not like a mom, she’s my best friend. But Brant’s like a dad. He’s like: ‘Are you still seeing Franco? Is he treating you right?’ And if I said, ‘We broke up,’ Brant would just say Franco wasn’t good enough for me, and I’d find the one just like he did with Eliza.”

  “The former assistant, I assume Ms. Lane fired her.”

  “Sure, yeah.”

  “And do you know where this person is now?”

  “Um…” He swiped at more tears as his brow furrowed. “I think she went back to Kansas or out there. She just wasn’t cut out for New York.”

  “Would you have her name?”

  “Sure, sure, give me a second to pull it out.” He closed his eyes, hummed to himself. “There it is. Suzannah Clarkson. And not Kansas. Kansas City, but Missouri.”

  “That’s a good memory you’ve got there.”

  “I keep it all filed.” He wagged a hand beside his head.

  “How about you run me through tonight?”

  He did, and in detail, providing what people wore, snippets of conversation, who came with whom, who he felt hit the bar or the buffet a little heavy. He hadn’t invited a plus-one because he considered it a working party, and besides, he’d just broken things off with the aforementioned Franco.

  “Lin and I were in the dining room when Eliza and Samantha started the duet. I wanted to move in, because there’s nothing like watching Eliza sell it, but I hung back so other people could. And I had this little skip in my heart when I caught sight of Brant lifting a glass, toasting her, and how they looked at each other. Just for an instant, because she was in character for the duet. It was magic, you know? Those voices, and all the people dressed so fine, New York out the windows. I got lost in it. I’ll never take all of it for granted, so I got lost in it. I thought I heard a glass break, and remember I thought: Oops. Just oops. Then screaming, and it was awful, it was all awful.”

  He stopped to drink, and shuddered with it.

  “I didn’t know what happened, didn’t know it was Brant. I just wanted to get to Eliza, but I couldn’t get through all the people. I heard her crying, but I couldn’t get to her, not at first.”

  “When you did?”

  “I froze, I think. I just stood there, frozen. I kept thinking this isn’t real, can’t be. It was like passing out, but standing up. And when Lin pulled her away, I tried to help, but nothing worked right in my head. I heard them say he was gone, but he was right there, on the floor, so I didn’t get it.”

  His voice hitched now, and he pressed his fingers to his mouth again. But this time to hold back a sob.

  “The one who said he was a doctor and Sylvie took Eliza away, so I got a rag and I cleaned up the glass. It was like moving in fog. I thought, I better clean up the glass before somebody gets cut. I shouldn’t have, but I wasn’t thinking straight. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right. We got it.”

  “I knocked on Wayne and Cara’s door. They don’t stay long at a party if they’re not needed. I just started crying. And the police came. Can I go down to Sylvie’s and see Eliza?”

  “Maybe tomorrow’s better. She’s probably resting by now. Just a couple more questions, then you can go home.”

  “Can I go to my mom’s? I don’t want to go home. Can I go to my mom’s instead?”

  “That’s fine. Just a couple more questions.”

  When he left, Eve considered. “How about Killer Dress, Peabody?”

  “Vera Harrow. McNab reports she’s bitched about being held like a prisoner of war.”

  “Great. Change of pace. Let’s have her, and can you see if they’ve got any coffee in this place?”

  “I can attest they do, and some good stuff.”

  Eve busied herself doing some quick runs until Peabody brought both the witness and the coffee. Vera, obviously undeterred by potential poison, carried a flute of champagne.

  She paused—no doubt for effect—with one hand on her hip. “The butler’s pantry? Seriously?”

  “We take investigations very seriously. Have a seat, Ms. Harrow.”

  “I want it on the record that I object—also seriously—at being held here like a common thief for well over an hour. Nearly two goddamn hours now.”

  “So noted.”

  The dress might’ve been a killer, Eve thought, but the body inside it was the true perpetrator. Lush and luxurious, and not afraid to show it. Vera swiveled her way to the chair, sat, crossed long, shapely legs.

  “I know who you are,” she began, in a voice like white satin. “Don’t for a moment think your reputation intimidates me.”

  “Okay. You and the deceased were once involved.”

  “Brant and I had a blistering, bountiful, brilliant sexual affair.” She tossed back her hair and, with a little smile, sipped from the flute. “A weak man, but a Trojan in bed. Then Eliza got her claws in him. She’d recently been tossed aside so naturally wanted what I had.”

  “You sound bitter.”

  “Have you ever been cheated on?”

  “Irrelevant.”

  “No, it’s not. If you have, and had any pride, you’d understand the bitterness of being cheated on and cast aside, and lied to about the cheating.” She flicked a hand in the air so her diamonds flashed in the light. “I don’t believe in water under the bridge or over the dam or wherever the fuck it’s supposed to go. Eliza stole something from me, and very deliberately.”

  “Something?”

  “A lover I very much enjoyed, and the resulting media was brutal to me. They, the starry-eyed couple, and me, the discard.” With eyes somehow smug and feral, she hooked an arm over the back of the chair. “I say when an affair’s over, as others have learned. I enjoy the bitterness.”

  “Enough to poison the man who once discarded you?”

  She blinked, and for an instant her eyes reflected shock. Calculation followed swiftly. “If I’d thought of it, I’d have done it years ago. But I’d have been more inclined to poison Eliza. But then I’d have to give up my very tasty bitterness. I prefer standing back, waiting for their we’re-so-perfect marriage to implode. Which it would, in time.”

  A hard-ass, Eve thought. Generally speaking, she admired hard-asses. She found it easy to make an exception for Vera Harrow.

  “They were going on ten years.”

  “In time,” she repeated with another flick of her fingers. “Nothing lasts forever. Then I’d lure Brant back, use him, and discard him as publicly and cruelly as possible. Payback doesn’t have to be immediate.” She smiled, a feral cat’s smile that matched her eyes. “It just has to be satisfying.”

  “Did you come here tonight hoping for that implosion?”

  “You never know.” She lifted one smooth shoulder, sipped from the flute. “Besides, even I can admit Eliza throws a spectacular party. I’m sorry he’s dead. Now I’ll never get the chance for that payback, and Eliza snags the role of the grieving widow. The media will lap it up like cream. Add murder, if that’s what this was? It layers on shock, drama, titillation.”

  She raised her glass. “The bitch wins again.”

  “Having her husband die in her arms doesn’t feel like a win,” Peabody commented.

  Vera laughed. “Oh please.”

  “You spoke with Mr. Fitzhugh shortly before he died.”

  “Apparently so. I arrived late with my date and hadn’t had the chance to say hello. We spoke, I showed off the delicious young Rico, and like a good doormat, Brant moved on to ferry the champagne cocktail to Eliza. He’s always…”

  She sat up straight. “Oh wait. Wait. Her drink. It was her goddamn drink. He said he needed to take Eliza her drink, and to enjoy the party. Hers. Jesus Christ, the man was such a putz he ended up dying in her place.”

  Throwing back her head, Vera let out a howl of laughter. “It was meant for Eliza all along. You with your brilliant rep didn’t put it together. Eliza was meant to drink the poison.”

  “Gee, thanks. We never would’ve figured that out without you.”

  Vera’s eyes narrowed, then she shrugged. “So you had. That’s your job, after all, such as it is. We’d only arrived ten or fifteen minutes before I spoke to Brant, and I could hardly know in advance he’d have a drink for Eliza in his hand when I did.”

  “Being he was such a doormat, I’d think you’d assume he might, at some point in the evening. Or you might take a moment or two to greet the hostess when she had a drink in her hand.”

  Eve drank coffee, watched her quarry. “Kill the old rival, then follow through with the payback. Offer the grieving husband your comfort. Lure him in—your words. Then discard him. He not only loses his wife, he’s cut down in public and humiliated. It’s a solid plan.”

  Vera’s lips twisted. Not a grimace, Eve thought. A silent snarl. “I wouldn’t give Eliza the satisfaction of killing her and making her into a martyr. Are we done?”

  “We can be done for now. I’m sure we’ll have more to talk about later.”

  “You can talk through my lawyers.” She rose, tossed back her hair again.

  “No problem.”

  She started out, paused, looked back over her shoulder. “And The Icove Agenda was overrated.”

  Eve looked at Peabody, knocked a fist against her own chest. “Oh. Ouch.”

  “What a stone-ass bitch.”

  “I think more gold-plated, but yeah, a bitch. And not in a good way. The first with any kind of clear, if twisted, motive. We’ll dig deeper there because she sure as hell deserves it.

  “Bring in the other assistant—Cela Ricardo. And get the passcodes for Lane’s electronics from her and to McNab. We need to let people go, make sure we have statements and contacts, but we can’t get to everyone tonight anyway.”

  She didn’t get anything more from Cela but found the contrast to the other assistants interesting. No tears from this cool-eyed, contained woman, but an efficient, detailed relay of observations.

  “I was on the second floor when Ms. Lane began singing.” Cela kept her hands neatly folded in her lap as she spoke. “My employer prefers to keep guests out of private areas, so I’m tasked at events such as this to conduct a regular sweep of those areas.”

  “Anybody up there?”

  “I had yet to complete the sweep when I heard the sounds of alarm from the main level. At that time I was at the far end of the second floor, as I always begin the sweep at the master bedroom suite. I chose to postpone the duty to go back down, see if I could lend some assistance. I had no idea, of course, of the severity of the issue until I reached the curve of the stairs.”

  Shoulders straight in a black dress, Cela shifted slightly in her chair. The only sign, Eve saw, of any distress.

  “From that vantage point, I saw Mr. Fitzhugh on the floor and Ms. Lane holding his head and upper body. Dr. Cyril, who attended the party with Mr. Adderson, appeared to be attempting some medical aid. Mr. Jacoby, Mr. Fitzhugh’s assistant, was kneeling next to Ms. Lane. I determined Mr. Fitzhugh was in serious physical distress and contacted nine-one-one for assistance. I believe one of the guests or staff had already done so, but I was unaware of that at the time.”

  She cleared her throat. “Might I get a glass of water?” Cela gestured to a glass-fronted friggie under the counter.

  “Sure.”

  She rose, retrieved a tube of spring water, a glass from a cupboard. “Would you care for one, Lieutenant?”

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  After pouring the glass, rolling the tube, depositing it in the recycler, she sat again. And took three slow sips.

  “It was, for several moments, very chaotic.”

  “Did you come down to the main level?”

  “Not at that time, no. I thought it best to stay out of the way. Dolby, Dolby Kessler, Ms. Lane’s personal assistant, pushed through the crowd. There was broken glass on the floor. Dr. Cyril cut his hand on a shard. Superficially, I believe. The bell rang—the door. That’s when I went down, and I let in the medical technicians. Though I’d already seen, again from my vantage point on the stairs, that Mr. Fitzhugh had died.”

  She stopped, sipped again. “It was shocking. I couldn’t imagine how such a young, fit individual, and one who’d just had a complete physical evaluation, could simply collapse and die within minutes.”

  When Eve said nothing, Cela shifted again. “I’ve heard several comments and speculation regarding poison, which I discounted as dramatic. Expected with so many theater people. But I’ve also been told you specialize in murders.”

  That was one way to put it, Eve supposed. “I’m with Homicide. The medical examiner will determine cause of death, and for now this apartment will be treated as a crime scene. That’s standard.”

  “Of course.”

  “That said, are you aware of anyone who might wish either Mr. Fitzhugh or Ms. Lane harm?”

  “I couldn’t say. There’s considerable competition in their chosen field, naturally. And some fans or critics can be harsh in their evaluation of a presentation of a role. Others become, in my opinion, of course, far too enamored of the person they see in that role and take strange flights of fancy. Such as Ms. Lane’s stalker.”

  “Stalker?” Son of a bitch! “What stalker?”

  “A young man named Ethan Crommell. I’m sorry, I should have said this was fully three years ago, and he was ultimately arrested.”

  She paused, cleared her throat, drank more water.

  “Ms. Lane was starring in All’s Fair at the time, and he came to numerous performances. More, after virtually every performance, he would linger outside the stage door for a word, an autograph, or simply to catch a glimpse. He often had a single red rose to give her.”

  “She interacted with him?”

  “Ms. Lane is very generous with her fans. But after a few weeks of it, she limited the contact. Then he wrote letters. Even that seemed harmless enough at first, if obsessive, but it escalated.”

  “In what way did it escalate?”

  “He sent flowers, small gifts, and in his notes he started to insist they were meant to be together. That they had been together in a former life. He began to follow her, and then to approach. In any case, over a period of about three months, his behavior became more delusional, and he more insistent.”

  “Insistent how?”

  “He accosted Mr. Fitzhugh once, claiming he—Mr. Fitzhugh—kept Ms. Lane away from him—Ethan Crommell—by force and intimidation. At one point, he had to be physically removed from a restaurant where Mr. Fitzhugh and Ms. Lane were dining. The police who responded found he had a knife in his possession—one he claimed he intended to use to cut the bonds that tied Ms. Lane, unwillingly, to Mr. Fitzhugh. He was arrested and charged, and is, I believe, currently in a facility for mental disorders.”