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“We’re taking care of him now, Mrs. Anders.” Peabody stepped over, offered a glass of water.
She took the water, and when one hand shook, gripped the glass with both. “Someone broke in? I don’t see how that can be. We’re secure, we’re very secure here. Fifteen years. We’ve been here for fifteen years. We’ve never had a break-in.”
“There weren’t any signs of a break-in.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Whoever killed your husband either knew the security code, or was given access to the house.”
“That can’t be.” Ava waved a hand in quick dismissal. “No one other than Tommy and myself and Greta has the code. Surely you’re not suggesting Greta—”
“I’m not, no.” Though she’d be doing a thorough check on the house manager. “There wasn’t a break-in, Mrs. Anders. Thus far there’s no sign anything in the house was taken, or disturbed.”
Ava laid a hand between her breasts where a rope of luminous pearls rested. “You’re saying Tommy let someone in, and they killed him. But that doesn’t make sense.”
“Mrs. Anders, was your husband involved with someone, sexually or romantically?”
She turned away immediately, first her face, then her body. “I don’t want to talk about this now. I’m not going to talk about this now. My husband is dead.”
“If you know anyone who could gain access to the house, to his bedroom—while you were out of the country—it could tell us who killed your husband, and why.”
“I don’t know. I don’t. And I can’t think about something like that.” The anger slapped out at Eve. “I want you to leave me alone. I want you out of my house.”
“That’s not going to happen. Until we clear it, this house is part of a homicide investigation. Your husband’s bedroom is a crime scene. I suggest you make arrangements to stay elsewhere for the time being, and to stay available. If you don’t want to finish this now, we’ll finish it later.”
“I want to see my husband. I want to see Tommy.”
“We’ll arrange that as soon as possible. Do you want us to contact anyone for you?”
“No.” Ava looked out the sunny window. “I don’t want anyone. I don’t want anyone now.”
Outside, Eve climbed behind the wheel while Peabody sat shotgun. “Rough,” Peabody commented. “You’re soaking up tropical drinks and rays one minute, and the next, your husband’s dead.”
“She knows he was screwing around. She knows something about it.”
“I guess they probably always do. The spouse, I mean, of the screwing-arounder. And I think a lot of times they can just block it out, pretend it’s not happening hard enough so they start to believe it.”
“Would you be shedding tears for McNab’s dead body if he’d been screwing around on you?”
Peabody pursed her lips. “Well, since I’d’ve been the one who killed him, I’d probably be shedding tears for me because you’d be arresting me. And that would really make me sad. Easy enough to verify Ava Anders was out of the country when Anders died.”
“Yeah, do that. And we’ll check her financials. They’ve got plenty of dough to roll. Maybe she cut off some to hire somebody to kill him. Paid his playmate to do it.”
“Man, how cold would that be?”
“We’ll run friends, business associates, golf partners—”
“Golf?”
“He had a golf game scheduled this morning with an Edmond Luce. Maybe we’ll shake loose something on who he played other games with when the wife was off with the girls.”
“Wouldn’t you like to do that? Have a girl trip?”
“No.”
“Ah, come on, Dallas.” The very idea brightened Peabody’s voice. “Go somewhere with girlfriends, hang, drink lots of wine or fussy drinks, get facials and spa treatments, or lie on the beach, and talk about stuff half the night.”
Eve glanced over. “I’d rather be dragged naked over jagged glass.”
