Festive in Death

by J. D. Robb

  She actually laughed like that. In three, distinct Ha’s.

  “We worked with each other before.” She stuck out her hand, gave Eve’s a solid pump. “I’m Omega.”

  “That’s a name?”

  “Ha ha ha. Yes, indeed. I’m the head designer. I realize you and I didn’t have a chance to go over the decor and details for this evening’s event, but Roarke did sign off on the design.”

  “Okay.”

  “Naturally there are always a few tweaks on-site, particularly when coordinating with other vendors. And while the florist has done an amazing job . . .”

  She turned, aimed a look at another woman jabbing fingers in the air while a couple of guys hauled around a big gold urn with enormous red and white flowers. The look didn’t speak of admiration.

  “An amazing job,” she continued, “there are some adjustments we need to make.”

  “Okay.”

  “I just need to go over a few points with you, and address a few questions. All of us, of course, want tonight’s event to be absolutely perfect.”

  “Right. Okay.” Eve braced herself, thought: Ready. Aim. “Fire away.”

  • • •

  Within ten minutes, with her head throbbing, she admitted Roarke had been right to tell her to leave her weapon in her office.

  Really, she would have done a service for all mankind to stun the decorator and the florist.

  Within thirty, she considered going back, getting the weapon and taking them both out.

  They complimented each other with icy smiles and words like brilliant, beautiful, bountiful. Then jabbed at each other with sharp little insults.

  The urns were too gold a gold. The tulle was too fussy.

  The florist claimed her measurements were precise. The designer disagreed—hers were. And as far as Eve could tell there were bare inches between.

  “I need that space for my poinsettia snowflakes,” the florist, who introduced herself as Bower (seriously), insisted. “They’ve been created specifically and exclusively for this event.”

  “As you can clearly see on my design, that space is required for the gift table, and you are to provide for that table—per my notes—gold mini trees, red amaryllis, and white flameless candles.”

  “We discussed this design change, Omega.”

  “I don’t recall that, Bower.”

  “We absolutely—”

  “What gift table?” Eve demanded, and stopped both women from snarling.

  “The holiday gifts for your guests,” Omega told her. “A gold bag for the ladies will contain a limited edition bottle of the new fragrance, Snow Queen—not on the market until February. A red bag for the gentlemen will contain a portable bar set in a custom-made case. At last count, the number of guests—”

  “I don’t want to know.” Eve waved that away. “We can put the gift bags in one of the other rooms out there.”

  “But . . . Well, I don’t want to insult your guests, of course, but if the gifts are placed elsewhere some might, mistakenly, of course, take more than their share. Or some of the staff might help themselves.”

  “If we’re giving stuff away, what do we care? There’s that salon place out there—we get spillover in there when we have these deals. Just set up the gifts in there, do the snowflake thing in here. Problem solved. Next?”

  “I’d have to see the salon area,” Omega insisted. “In order to display the gifts to the best advantage I may need to make further adjustments, add some decorations to that space.”

  “Help yourself. That way.” Eve pointed. “Hang a left. You want to add tinsel or lights or whatever, fine by me.”

  “We’ll need to be sure there are complementary floral arrangements,” Bower put in.

  “Great. Make it happen.”

  Both women, elated with the idea of having another space to haggle over, rushed off. Eve let out a single grateful breath.

  “Well done.” Roarke stepped up to her, offered her a tube of Pepsi.

  “Thanks.” She cracked it, guzzled. “Why do you have gifts for everybody? They get to come, get to eat, get to drink, get live music. I see the stage over there.”

  “They’re guests, it’s Christmas. It’s a token.”

  “They didn’t sound like tokens. But it’s your dough.”

  He slid an arm around her waist, kissed her temple. “Our party.”

  “Yeah.” Cleared of florist and decorator, she took a fresh look around.

  All the trees up and dressed, and, okay, they looked pretty terrific. She watched a guy in a watch cap and combat boots fiddle with some sort of handheld—then grin as lights, pale gold, spread tiny stars over the ceiling.

  “Fucking A, I’m just that good!” he called out, and someone laughed.

  Tables, she assumed for food, ranged against the two side walls. Little hightops clustered here and there, all draped in that pale gold again. She noted some of them already held a low display of red flowers, tiny gold pinecones, white candles.

  She began to see how it would be.

  “Pretty snazzy.”

  “One hopes.” He took the tube, had a sip for himself.

  “But friendly. And—I get the crystals, the snowflakes. It’s Christmas, it’s winter. But it’s warm. It’s welcoming, I guess.”

  “Then we’ve hit the mark, haven’t we?”

  “Hey!” She called across the room, grabbed the tube back from Roarke and strode over to two workmen wheeling in another tower of flowers. “Don’t bring that in here.”

  “Bower said—”

  “It’s too much for in here. It’ll look better on the terrace.”

  “But Bower said—”

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass what Bower said. This is my party. I’m in charge. Take it out. I’ll show you where.”

  Slipping his hands into his pockets, Roarke watched her point the workmen out again.

  Yes, indeed, he thought. They’d hit the mark.

  Eve wouldn’t say she enjoyed a couple of hours ordering around decorators and florists and the people who—apparently—feared them. But she couldn’t deny a certain satisfaction in it. And a deeper satisfaction from making sure everyone involved feared her more.

  Still it was with huge relief she snuck away, confident everything was under as much control as possible, to grab twenty minutes—okay, maybe an hour—in her office.

  She checked her incomings first, surprised and grateful to find one from Mira.

  She opened it, scanned it, then homed in on one section.

  Victim Ziegler and Suspect Copley both demonstrate a skill in recognizing the needs and desires, strengths and weaknesses of others, and forged careers which utilized that skill. Ziegler in personal training, i.e., the desire of a client to appear more attractive or become more fit, what will motivate them to succeed or appear to succeed. His instinct for culling through those clients, and others, for women who would be amenable to exchanging money for sex and his exploitation of same. His success in these areas encouraged him to expand his limits, exploiting other clients for gain, using illegals to “persuade” other women to engage in sex, then exploiting them for financial gain.

  In Suspect Copley’s case, his skills guided him to public relations where he could read clients, using words or images to create campaigns to influence opinion. His secret accounts, financed primarily with money taken from his wife, demonstrate a need to control and, again, for gain. While his career benefits make him financially secure in his own right, he requires more, and feels he deserves more.

  He, like Ziegler, has—at least for the short term—successfully lived two lives. With money taken from his wife, money he would feel rightfully his, Copley has established a second residence where he has placed a woman for his own sexual gratification and ego. His choice—a young, naive woman—demonstrates a need for do
minance. His wife has more—maturity, experience, and money—therefore he cannot dominate in that relationship. He exploits a younger, financially inferior, and inexperienced woman, using his skills to identify her needs, desires, strengths, weaknesses, and using deception, fabricating facts, ensures her devotion while he continues to benefit from his wife’s financial and social positions.

  Both individuals demonstrate narcissistic tendencies, predatory sexual behavior, a need to prove their self-worth and desirability through sex, show, and money.

  If, as you believe, Ziegler blackmailed Copley, the benefit to Ziegler would have been money and a demonstration that though Copley appeared superior in social status and financial holdings, Ziegler “won.” The cost of said blackmail to Copley was, in addition to the dollars and cents, a loss of face and ego.

  Considering the unplanned, impulsive nature of the murder, as per evidence, followed by the deliberate physical and personal insult, Copley’s profile and personality make him a strong suspect. The stress and fear of discovery by his wife and by the woman he has established in a second residence, along with the shame of being bested by someone he would consider an underling, increases his probability in this incident.

  If and when he is brought in for formal interview, I would like to observe.

  “Yeah, we’ll make sure of it.”

  Sex and money—and ego—for both of them. And both working overtime to appear superior to others, better than others.

  She recalled the woman in Copley’s staff meeting—ignored, knowing it, both pissed and resigned by Eve’s take. Included in the meeting, Eve thought, but not treated like the rest. Just a little less than the rest.

  It made her think of country clubs and golf, and treating a man who provided a service to a fancy round and manly drinks.

  Following a hunch, she did some digging. In ten minutes, she had the golf pro at Copley’s club on the ’link. In five more, with some pushing, she had Copley’s regular caddy.

  In about seven more, with some persuasion, she had a very clear image of how that initial round of golf went down.

  She added to her notes—anecdotal evidence maybe, but it was adding up.

  Forgetting the time, she went back to her incomings, opened one from Peabody.

  Had a brainstorm during my pedicure so did some surfing. Got some skinny on Copley—couple articles attached. Gist is: First wife came from money. Not Quigley money, but pretty shiny. Five years in, divorce. Accusations of cheating on both sides. Word is, he ended up with a nice if not princely settlement.

  Was next-to-engaged to another highflier a couple years later. Accusations of cheating—and one of the cheatees was—wait for it—Natasha Quigley, also married at that time. He and Quigley got married twenty-two months later.

  Romantic story is he whisked her off to Hawaii, where her family has a home on Maui—proposed. He’d already applied for the license, done the paperwork, even bought her a dress, the flowers—then sprang it on her. They got married the next day on the beach. Some rumors at the time—he was stepping out with his former almost-fiancée, and there was trouble in the Quigley-Copley paradise—quashed with the elopement.

  I really like the romance stuff, but it sounds like he got caught cheating or was suspected of same by Quigley, and handled it with a quickie wedding. Sewed up the bird in the hand, right?

  This is all Gossip Channel stuff, so needs lots of salt. But he’s coming off a son of a bitch, I think.

  Can’t wait to dance on my sparkly new toes! See you soon.

  P,DD

  “Good work,” Eve murmured. She saved the incoming—she’d read the articles later.

  For now, she pulled up his financials again, emphasis on his hidden accounts. Side pieces, even when you didn’t buy a fancy apartment to keep them in, cost money.

  Dinner, gifts, little getaways.

  She began combing through, brought up Quigley’s as well to try to coordinate.

  Her eyes, aching from studying figures, lifted to Roarke when he came in.

  “I did everything. I was just taking a break from it. I’ve only been in here . . . forty-six minutes,” she calculated after a quick check.

  “I’ll say again, I’m not in charge of all that. I will say I just did a walk-through. It looks very well, and the adjustments you made here and there work nicely. Also, first wave of catering’s just arrived. The head there is nose to nose with the head decorator. There may be blood.”

  “If so, I’ll make the arrest. I’m just going to let that play out for a bit.”

  “How about a glass of wine?”

  “Oh yeah, how about that? I got a report from Mira and I really wanted to read it. It adds weight to Copley as my prime suspect. Then I talked to his caddy.”

  “As in golf?” Roarke asked as he poured wine.

  “Yeah. Her report and analysis got me thinking about how he and Ziegler both had this ego that needed stroking—sex, status, money. So how would the golf game go? I played it with the caddy that I was digging for info on Ziegler seeing as he’s dead, then tickled out what I wanted about Copley. Copley played benefactor—and made sure Ziegler knew it, felt it. His club, his course, his caddy, his treat.”

  “For some a gift is only a symbol of their own superior position, which makes it not a gift at all.”

  “I’d just say the gift came with sharp, sticky ribbons—which is pretty much the same.”

  “And more visual. Ziegler’s reaction to Copley’s largess?”

  “The caddy said Ziegler expressed gratitude but didn’t mean it, not if you paid attention. The caddy said he thought Copley was a little ungracious, but probably because Ziegler trounced him four holes in a row, and Copley gets a little testy when he’s losing, which he told me means he—the caddy—gets blamed and gets stiffed on the tip at the end of the round.”

  “So we add poor sportsmanship to Copley’s sins.”

  “The caddy confided—we bonded—that Copley’s known for hurling his clubs into the trees after a bad—what is it—slice. And once after a bad lie—lay?”

  “Don’t ask me.” Roarke only shrugged. “I’m no fan of the game.”

  “After whatever it was, Copley and the guy he was playing against got into a shouting match that went into a pushy-shovey match. The other guy ended up in the water trap thing.”

  “Extremely poor sportsmanship.”

  “Wet guy threatens to kick Copley’s ass, sue off what’s left of it. He’s pulling himself out of the drink,” Eve continued. “People are starting to zip up in those cart things, and Copley backs down, lots of apologies. Buys the guy a high-class putter. And according to the caddy, bad-mouths the wet guy every chance he gets.”

  “We have poor sport who has a poor temper to match, and is also a cowardly backbiter.”

  “That’s what I see. So back to Ziegler and that golf game. Ziegler’s clearly winning by the sixth hole.” She paused to drink. “Who decided how many holes there had to be?”

  “Again, I only play when I can’t avoid it. Ask someone else.”

  “Maybe I will. Meanwhile, Ziegler’s ahead, Copley’s bitching. But then Copley ordered up drinks—prime brew. He stuck to water and power drinks while Ziegler got half cut and, being half cut, lost his focus and his form.”

  “And Copley won the round?”

  “Yeah, rubbed it in some, but took Ziegler to the nineteenth hole for more drinks. I get why they call the bar the nineteenth hole, but why are there eighteen to begin with?”

  “It’s as good a number as any,” Roarke supposed. “Why four bases in baseball?”

  “Because they make a diamond.”

  “One might ask what a diamond has to do with baseball, but I won’t or we’ll be at this half the night. Let’s just finish off the golf.”

  “Right. Copley had him back a couple times, but with the brother-in-la
w along, and that’s about it for the golf portion. Then Peabody came up with more weight, but of the gossip variety. Tales of cheating, divorce, cheating, elopements.”

  “I may need more wine,” Roarke considered.

  “Quick version. Copley cheated on first wife, cheated on almost-fiancée with current wife, and may have cheated on current wife before elopement with almost-fiancée.”

  “He keeps busy.”

  “Yeah, and for both of them it’s all about sex and money. Not for pleasure, but for ego and power. They had a lot in common only Ziegler was blackmailing and sleeping his way up, Copley married his way up.”

  “Yet the side piece—this would be Felicity?” He tapped the photo on the board.

  “Yeah, Shipshewana Felicity.”

  “She’s lovely and very young. Shipshewana Felicity doesn’t have money or social status.”

  “She provides the sex and the adoration, and makes Copley feel superior.”

  “If there aren’t any feelings, genuine ones, involved, why not find that sex and adoration with money?”

  “He wouldn’t be the first who lost it over big eyes and tits. Maybe this time out he wants to be the one with the big bucks, comparatively. But if his wife cuts him off, he can’t afford his current lifestyle. He can afford a good one, one a lot of people would be happy with, but not what he’s gotten used to. So Ziegler held that threat.”

  Eve studied her wine. “I have to go up there, don’t I? I have to go back up there with the crazy people in the ballroom.”

  “That’s up to you.”

  “Which means I have to go up there and step between caterers and decorators. I’m not wrong for preferring murderers.”

  “I’d never say so. But before you go face the worst, I have an early Christmas gift for you.”

  “We’re almost there, why does it have to be early?”

  “It’s for tonight, and as Trina will be here within the hour—”

  “Why! Why did you have to say the name!” She gripped her hair in her fists, turned a fast circle. “I was mellowing.”

  “You’ll muddle through it. In any case, she’ll need this.”