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“But it’s clean and empty.”
“Maybe he didn’t have time before the whack to prep.”
“Uh-uh. He’s got a touch of coffee breath. He didn’t just come in here with the killer, and get smacked with a heavy object. I’m betting the cast-iron deal is the murder weapon. If he got that out, where’s the other stuff, whatever he was going to put in it to cook? If he’s arguing with somebody, is he thinking about making breakfast? Why doesn’t the killer leave the murder weapon out or take it with him? Instead he cleans it up, stores it—and in what appears to be its proper place.
“If you’re getting breakfast, what’s the first thing you do?”
“Get the coffee,” Peabody said.
“Everybody gets the coffee, and Cecil tells me he did just that. But there’s no coffee made, no cup or mug.”
Lips pursed, eyes scanning, Peabody tried to see it as Eve did. “Maybe he or they had already eaten, cleaned up. Then had the argument.”
“Could be, but if so, was this pan still out handy for the whack? Everything’s put away all perfect, but this is within handy reach. Because this?” She lifted the now-sealed skillet. “It’s a weapon of opportunity. Get pissed, grab, whack. You wouldn’t open the drawer, take it out of the stack, select the weapon, then whack.”
Peabody followed the dots. “You think the spouse did it, then cleaned up, then called the cops.”
“I wonder how Havertoe got home. It’s time to have a chat.”
Eve released the uniform sitting with Havertoe to join the canvass. Like the kitchen, the master bedroom could have stood as an ad for Stylish Urban Home. From the sleek silver posts and zebra-print spread—with its carefully arranged mound of black and white pillows—the mirror gleam of bureaus, the strange angled lines of the art to the sinuous vase holding a single, spiky red flower that looked to Eve’s eye as if it might hide sharp, needle-thin teeth under its petals.
In the sitting area in front of the wide terrace doors, Paul Havertoe huddled on a silver-backed sofa with red cushions, and clutched a soggy handkerchief.
Eve judged him about twenty years his dead spouse’s junior. His smooth, handsome face carried a pale gold tan that showed off well against the luxurious sweep of his caramel-colored hair. He wore trim, pressed jeans and a spotless white shirt over a body that Eve assumed put in solid health-club time.
His eyes when they lifted to Eve’s were the color of plums and puffy from weeping.
“I’m Lieutenant Dallas, and this is Detective Peabody. I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr. Havertoe.”
“Cecil’s dead.”
Under the rawness of the tears, Eve caught hints of molasses and magnolia.
“I know this is a difficult time, but we need to ask you some questions.”
“Because Cecil’s dead.”
“Yes. We’re recording this, Mr. Havertoe, for your protection. And I’m going to read you your rights so you’re clear on everything. Okay?”
“Do you have to?”
“It’s better if I do. We’ll make this as quick as we can. Is there anyone you’d like us to contact for you—a friend, family member—before we start?”
“I … I can’t think.”
“Well, if you think of someone you want with you, we’ll arrange it.” She sat across from him, read off the Revised Miranda. “Do you understand your rights and obligations?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, good. You were out of town?”
“Chicago. A client. We’re event creators.
I got back this morning, and …”
“You returned from Chicago this morning. At what time?”
“I think, about eleven. I wasn’t due until four, but I was able to finish early. I wanted to surprise Cecil.”
