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“I’ll fetch him for you.” Roarke glanced at Eve, then made his way through the crowd of mourners.
“He’ll be right along,” Brigit soothed. “Ben will be right along. We’ll take you upstairs, sweetheart. You need some quiet. It’s too warm in here, too close, with so many people. It’s all too much.”
“I’ll give you a hand with that.” Eve stepped closer. “Why don’t I help you upstairs, Mrs. Anders?”
“I want Ben.” Ava turned her face away to press it against Brigit. “I’ll be stronger if I have Ben. He’s all I have left of Tommy.”
“He’s coming now. He’s coming, Ava.”
Ben rushed through the room, the grief coated over with concern. He bent over Ava like a shield. “I’m here. I just went out for some air. I’m right here.”
“Stay with me, Ben. Please, stay with me, just until we get through this.”
“Let’s take her upstairs.”
“No, Brigit, I shouldn’t leave. I need—”
“Just for a few minutes. Just a few minutes upstairs until you feel better.”
“Yes, you’re right. A few minutes. Ben.”
“Here we are. Take my arm. You’ll have to excuse us, Lieutenant.”
“Sure.”
So the widow, overcome, was led away to her private grief. Pitch-perfect, Eve thought. She could use some air herself, she decided, then spotted Nadine Furst across the room with Roarke.
“Personal or professional?” Eve asked when she joined them.
“Like cops, it’s always both for journalists. But personal leads the way here. I liked him, very much. And Ben.” She glanced toward the doorway, brushing back the sleek sweep of hair as she watched them go. “I was outside with him, having a word, when Roarke came out for him. Poor Ava, she looks so lost.”
“Oh, she knows where she’s going.”
Nadine’s eyes lit and narrowed. “What’s that I hear? You don’t seriously think—” She cut herself off, took a sip of the wine in her hand. “Too many ears in here. Why don’t we step outside?”
“Not ready for a one-on-one.”
“Peabody’s better than I thought,” Nadine said after a moment. “If what’s going on is what I think is going on. She never dropped a crumb. Some pals you are.”
“You be a pal first. Dig up those old interviews you told me about, send them to me.”
“I can do that. What’s in it for me?”
“That’s going to depend.”
“Look, Dallas—”
“Did I mention,” Roarke interrupted, “how strong I found your interview with Peabody last night? You drew the best out of her, effortlessly.”
“Teamwork.” Nadine sulked at both of them. “I hate that.”
“Get me the interviews, Nadine, then I’ll give you what I can when I can. But for now, I’ve had enough of this place. So—shit. It’s Tibble’s wife. Damn it.”
Not ready yet, was all Eve could think as the tall, whip-thin woman aimed toward her. Brutally short, honey brown hair crowned a strong, stunner of a face the shade of the well-steeped Irish tea Roarke occasionally enjoyed. Eve had heard the stories that once upon a time Karla Blaze Tibble made her living—and considerable sensation—as a fashion model. If she’d stalked the runways with the same purpose and panache as she crossed a mourning room, Eve decided, she would’ve been hard to beat.
“Lieutenant.” Her voice was smoky music, her eyes tiger gold.
“Ma’am.”
