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“Did you go to his apartment?”
“I don’t even know where it is. But I’d have found out. No,” he corrected, fury alive in every word. “No, I’d have gone to where he works, where he’s so proud of himself, where he preens and struts, and I’d have taken him apart, in public. Humiliated and hurt him, the way he humiliated and hurt my wife. He raped her, then he extorted money from her. I didn’t kill him, more’s the pity. But I’d shake the hand of the person who did.”
“I should never have let him come here. I shouldn’t have—”
“You’re not to blame.” Schubert turned his wife toward him, took her shoulders gently. “You’re not to blame for this, for any of it.” He drew Martella in, looked at Eve. “She’s not to blame.”
“No,” Eve agreed, “she’s not. There were others, Martella. We’re finding a lot of others. They’re not to blame, either.”
She let it all circle in her mind on the drive home, hoping she’d find a solid place for a theory to land. But the ground remained too soft.
Too many people, she thought, with too many motives. Alibis that she imagined could be toppled or at least shaken with enough of a push.
Maybe it was the season of goodwill toward men—not that she’d found that ever held fast—but with Ziegler ill will seemed the primary emotion.
And damn it, she felt some ill will of her own. She wanted to shut the door on the investigation—and the killer—tie it all up so she could enjoy the festivities, the holiday, the lights, the tree, the time with Roarke.
Throughout her childhood Christmas had been empty or painful or just lacking. A day other kids rushed out of bed to tear off paper and ribbon and find shiny dreams realized.
Until she’d been eight, her best gift had been if her father had been too drunk to knock her around. Or worse.
And after she’d killed Richard Troy—to save herself from the “or worse”—she’d been no one’s child. A foster, an add-on, a token. Part of that was probably her own attitude, she admitted as she drove through the gates. But she’d had pretty bad luck in the system. State school had been bland and gray, but easier.
But now, she had home—as bright and shiny as it got. She had Roarke, the epitome of all gifts. And for reasons that often baffled her, she had friends. More than she sometimes—most times—knew what to do with, but they’d added dimension to her life while she wasn’t looking.
Thinking of her victim, of what he’d done to fill his own life, she found herself grateful for what she had.
Even—when she walked in and saw him—Summerset.
Sort of.
The cat pranced over to her, jingling all the way. She supposed it had been Summerset who’d added the bow and bell to Galahad’s collar.
She’d have said something snarky, but the cat appeared to enjoy the adornment.
“The first team of decorators will be here at eight A.M. sharp,” Summerset informed her. “They’ll begin in the ballroom. A second team will arrive by ten to complete work on the terraces. Catering arrives at four in the afternoon, and waitstaff at six for a run-through. Other auxiliary staff will arrive by six-thirty.”
“Okay.”
“Your stylist will arrive by six, giving her ninety minutes to deal with you. You’ll be finished, prepared to greet guests at seven-fifty-five.”
“I don’t want ninety minutes, for God’s sake, with Trina. Who needs ninety minutes to get ready for a party?”
Eyebrows raised, Summerset looked down his nose.
“The arrangements have been made. The schedule is set. The gifts you brought home are wrapped, labeled, and under the tree in the master suite. What you’ve had wrapped or are in the process of inexpertly wrapping for Roarke remain in the Blue Room.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What were you doing in there?”
“My duties. Do you want the rest of those gifts wrapped and brought down to the tree in the main parlor.”
“I’ll do it.” Her back stiffened. “I know the rules. I’m supposed to do it. There’s still time. Just . . . stay out of there until I’m finished.”
Flustered, she shot up the stairs with the belled cat jing-a-linging after her.
She hadn’t forgotten Roarke’s gifts—God knew she’d squeezed her brain to putty to come up with things the richest man in the free world wouldn’t have and might want—but she’d mostly pushed aside the reality of wrapping them up.
Now she had to do that, order decorators around, deal with Trina, make nice with a houseful of guests, and, oh yeah, close a murder case.
