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"Sure. This is some place."
"We’re very happy with it," Maeve agreed.
It was pretty, bright - like their hostess - and charmingly organized. Nothing at all like the cluttered junk heap Eve had expected. Art and posters lined the walls, but in a way she supposed someone might arrange them in their home if they were crazy enough to want things everywhere.
Still, tables, display cabinets, shining shelves held memorabilia in a way that escaped the jumbled, crowded stocking style many shops of its kind were victim to. Music was playing unobtrusively - something full of instruments and certainly not of the current era. It added an easy appeal.
"Please, have a seat," Maeve invited. "Or browse if you like. My father’s just in the back office. He’s on the ‘link with London."
"Late for business over there," Eve commented.
"Yes. Private collector. Most of our business is from or to private collections." Maeve swept a wave of that pretty red hair back from her face. "Is there anything I can do for you in the meantime?"
"You’ve bought a number of pieces over the last several months from Radcliff C. Hopkins."
"Mr. Hopkins, of course. Nineteen-sixties through Eighties primarily. We acquired a number of pieces from him. Is there a problem?"
"For Hopkins there is. He was killed last night."
"Oh!" Her cheery, personal-service smile flashed into shock. "Killed? Oh my God."
"Media’s run reports on it through the day."
"I… I hadn’t heard." Maeve’s hands were pressed to her cheeks, and her round blue eyes were wide.
"We’ve been open since ten. We don’t keep any current screen shows or radio on in the shop. Spoils the… the timeless ambiance. My father’s going to be so upset."
"They were friends?"
"Friendly, certainly. I don’t know what to say. He was in only a few weeks ago. How did he die?"
"The details are confidential." For the moment, Eve thought. There were always leaks and the media couldn’t wait to soak them up, wring them dry. "I can tell you he was murdered."
Maeve had a redhead’s complexion, and her already pale skin went bone white. "Murdered? This is horrible. It’s - " She turned as a door in the back opened.
The man who came out was tall and thin, with the red hair he’d passed to his daughter dusted with a little silver. He had eyes of quiet green, and a smile of greeting ready. It faded when he saw his daughter’s face.
"Maeve? What’s the matter? Is there a problem?"
"Daddy. Mr. Hopkins, he’s been murdered."
He gripped his daughter’s arm, and those quiet eyes skimmed from Roarke to Eve and back again. "Rad Hopkins?"
"That’s right." Eve held out her badge. "I’m Lieutenant Dallas. You and Mr. Hopkins had business?"
"Yes. Yes. My God, this is such a shock. Was it a burglary?"
"Why would you ask?"
"His collection. He had a very extensive collection of antique art."
"You bought a good chunk of that collection."
"Bits and pieces. Excellent bits and pieces." He rubbed his daughter’s shoulder and drew her down to the arm of the chair as he sat. The gesture seemed to help both of them compose themselves.
"I was hoping to eventually do a complete appraisal and give him a bid on the whole of it. But he was…" He pushed at his hair and smiled. "He was canny. Held me off, and whet my appetite with those bits."
"What do you know about Number Twelve?"
